


Collide

by moaningmyrtle



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Car Accidents, Hospitalization, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moaningmyrtle/pseuds/moaningmyrtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Images of a bright red stoplight consume his mind; Mickey remembers breaking at the intersection, or at least he thinks that he did. There could've been no way he'd ran a red, he hadn't even had a drink that night. The realization that it'd been raining all day, and the roads were slick and glossy with icy patches on the cement, brings a second memory to mind.</p><p>There was another driver, in a faded blue pick-up truck, but now it seems that Mickey is the only one in the ambulance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sound of a siren, loud and constant, is the first thing Mickey hears when he wakes. It's like an alarm that he can't shut off. 

His arms and legs won't budge, and a brace around Mickey's neck makes it impossible to determine why. What he's expected to be a demanding question comes out sounding weak and tired, "Where am I?" 

There's a mask being held over his mouth, he realizes, because his voice is muffled by the flow of oxygen and a plastic machine. 

A woman dressed in dark blue scrubs is leaning over him now, although Mickey can't quite make out what she's saying to him. It might've been something like, 'we're almost there, stay with us,' but he can't be sure; his ears are ringing louder than ever before and he isn't positive wether it's the sirens anymore.

For a moment or two, he squirms around on the cot and struggles desperately to sit up, but there's an aching pain shooting through each limb on his sore body and palms pressing him back into the thin mattress. 

It doesn't take more than thirty second's before Mickey feels utterly drained of energy. The world still seems to spin and blur, and Mickey attempts to focus on one object that he could clearly make out.

A stethoscope is hanging a few inches from his face, dangling from the neck of the woman with a worried expression across her young face. There's tools, medical tools, hanging from the walls, along with various machines that beeped and flashed. 

Mickey might've believed he's in the doctor's office if it weren't for the fact that he can feel the road beneath him now, making out the sound of tires on gravel and connecting it to the siren's which had yet to be turned off. 

The voice is distant and faint but Mickey watches carefully as the paramedic's lips move, "Mickey, can you hear me?" 

If he could've nodded to assure the woman he was awake, he would've, but all it seemed Mickey can manage to do is open his eyes and stare back up at her. 

"Okay, good," She seems to find relief in the small gesture of confirmation, and sets her warm palm on his trembling hand, "You were in a pretty bad accident, but we're minutes away from the emergency room. Stay with me, we're almost there."

It all comes rushing back to Mickey like a wave, catching him off-guard and sending him tumbling back into the cold water. 

Images of a bright red stoplight consume his mind; Mickey remembers stopping at the intersection, or at least he think's he did. There was no way he'd ran a red, he hadn't even had a drink that night. The realization that it'd been raining all day, and the roads were slick and glossy with icy patches on the cement, brings another memory to mind. 

There was another driver, in a faded blue pick up truck, but now it seems Mickey is the only one in the ambulance. 

It takes him a minute to get the paramedic's attention, and she lifts his mask for him as he asks, "The fuck happened?" 

The woman doesn't seem to know what he's attempting to say, "Try to stay still, Mickey." 

There's an overwhelming urgency inside Mickey's head to close his eyes once more and succumb to the tiredness that had taken over his body, and so he does. 

There must be four or five doctors surrounding his small cot when Mickey regains his consciousness. Long, thin wires are hanging from loud, beeping machines, being held into his arm with needles and bandages that he wishes he could yank out. The brace around his neck has been removed for what Mickey can only assume is X-Rays, and he attempts to examine his own well-being.

"Oh fuck," Mickey swears loudly, catching the attention of the doctor tending to his forehead, "What the fuck is that?" 

His jeans have been removed and replaced with a sheet, and the vomit rises in Mickey's throat as soon as he catches sight of his own leg. As if it had been snapped, his shin-bone had broken through where his skin should've been covering. 

"We need to realign your bone now," A man to Mickey's right says, sounding apologetic as he adds, "This is going to hurt, a lot." 

"No, wait," Mickey tries to protest but there's already two palms on his leg, and another doctor is placing the oxygen mask back over his mouth. The bone disappears from his sight as he yells out desperately, "Holy mother-fucking shit! Jesus fucking Christ!" 

The sudden, overwhelming rush of pain sends Mickey into another world. All he can see is a tunnel of white, the surrounding noises fading into a solid, everlasting ringing in his head. 

Someone is talking but he can barely make out the words, "We're taking you for X-Rays now, Mickey. You still here with us?" 

There's no energy left in Mickey's tired and broken body, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but the way his head is pounding and his leg feels as though it's literally on fire. 

The tunnel-vision fades as Mickey's rolling through the open door, and in the distance he can hear a doctor shouting across the floor, "We need an emergency room, stat. He's got at least four broken bones, possible spinal cord and brain damage, whiplash, lacerations. I need everyone with a pulse in there with me."

There's no way Mickey can turn around to address the panic in his condition, but he listens closely as the man pushing his cot yells back, "Vic one has a fractured shin and possibly a severe concussion; we're taking him to radiography."

It doesn't take long until the doctor's are lifting Mickey from the rolling cot and placing him as gently as they can on the metal table. The blanket they lie over him feels heavy, and he attempts to keep himself calm as the machine's arm scans his body from above. 

By the time they're finished, whatever sedatives they'd given him earlier are kicking in again, and Mickey finds himself in a dreamy daze for the next few hours, spread out on the hospital bed as the nurses wrap his leg in a cast and leave him to rest.

When he's finally brought back from what felt like a deep sleep, Mickey notices the IV has been taken out of his arm and he's been dressed in a hospital gown. It feels a little too personal, having everyone's hands on him while he was unconscious, but he knows it's not exactly a valid complaint. 

"Fuck no," Mickey blurts out as soon as he looks down at his right leg, finding that half of it has been casted, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

The memory is foggy once again, but Mickey recalls having his leg snapped back into place, and flinches at the image.

"Mickey Milkovich," A doctor greets him as he strolls into the curtained area, scanning the chart in his hands as he rounds the small bed, "How are you feeling now?"

"Uh," Mickey grabs his head and tries to steady himself, finding that his world still feels off kilter, "Drunk, but not in the fun kind of way." 

"That sounds about right," The doctor chuckles at Mickey's comment as he reaches a hand forward, "I'm Doctor Bernstein. Can you remember what happened last night?"

Mickey doesn't bother shaking the man's hand, instead shifting until his back is against the wall, "I was, uh, out with my band, I think?" 

"The accident, Mickey. Do you remember the accident?"

Mickey doesn't respond; he can't quite remember how he ended up at the hospital. 

The doctor eyes his patient with a hint of concern, "You collided with another vehicle, around two in the morning. Do you remember the date?"

"September?"

"Okay, and do you know what kind of car you drive?"

The question sounds oddly specific and Mickey glares at the doctor from his bed, "You a cop or something?"

Doctor Bernstein sighs and sets his chart down on the table, replacing it with a small light from the metal tray, "Just trying to determine your memory hasn't been affected with a few questions most anyone would know. Follow the light with your eye's, but keep your head still."

Mickey obeys for a moment before looking around the room nervously, "The guy I hit, did he..."

It takes the doctor a moment to catch on, "Are you asking if it was fatal on his end? It wasn't, but it could've been. He's in much tougher shape than you- consider yourself lucky."

Mickey runs a shaky hand through his hair, and before he can answer, they're interrupted by a loud shout coming from the room next to them. 

"Where the hell am I?" Mickey can hear the man shouting at the nurse, and a clash of tools falling to the ground, catching Doctor Bernstein's immediate attention. 

"Sorry, excuse me a moment," the doctor says in a rush, quickly dropping his tool to attend to the haywire patient in the next room. 

"Ian, you were in a car accident," Mickey's doctor is trying to calm whoever it is that's yelling, his voice rising above the patients, "you're in the hospital with mild brain damage and broken bones. Do you understand?"

The patient doesn't seem to comprehend what's going on, slurring as he shouts back, "I don't know who you are! 

Looking around the small room, Mickey spots a pair of crutches and grabs one. It's a bit too tall for him, but he leans on it as he hobbles out of his curtained room. A few nurses look his way as Mickey peers around the floor, trying to pinpoint the shouting.

A nurse is trying to point Mickey back in the right direction as he starts to limp towards a curtained room, "Sir, please stay in your cot." 

"No thanks," Mickey responds, pushing back the curtain as the nurse leaves to find who he could assume would be security. 

The man on the bed looks like he's been through the shredder. There's a large bandage wrapped around his bright red hair and freckled forehead, covering what Mickey guessed was a gash on the side of his head. The rest of his pale skin has been cut up, and though it's obvious the blood has been wiped off, the scrapes and bruises nearly cover every inch of his face. Instead of simply a broken leg, the stranger's ankle and wrist were both in a cast, along with his right hand.

"Mr. Milkovich, I need you to get back to your bed," Doctor Bernstein is the first to address Mickey's impromptu entrance, but he doesn't comply. 

Instead, Mickey leans against the wall and attempts to catch his breath, "So, this the guy I hit?"

The patient is staring at him with wide-eyes, "I saw you."

Mickey raises an eyebrow curiously, "Saw who?" 

"You," the patient repeats, his voice shaking, "In the car. There was a car..."

The doctor looks down at the patient and nods enthusiastically, "That's right, Ian. There was a crash, and you were in a car. Mickey was in the other car- you've met before?"

The patient shook his head, "No, just... I looked out my window... Your head was bleeding?"

The stitches across Mickey's forehead are itchy and he ghosts his fingers over the stapled wound, "Was it? I didn't notice." 

Mickey swears the red-head smiles at him, but the doctor interjects before he can answer, "You were both taken into the emergency room moments after the collision, both found unconscious. After a series of tests, we've determined that Ian experienced something called a diffuse axonal injury. While it's only moderate, he'll probably show various signs of brain damage. Quite honestly, it's impressive you're recognizing what happened. We've started you on a course of steroids to reduce the inflammation and swelling, and we insist you stay for further monitoring incase of potential complications." 

Ian is quiet a moment, his eyes travelling the rooms interior as he finally realizes where he is. It doesn't take long before his gaze falls back on Mickey, leaning against the wall and staring back with concern etched across his face. 

"So, what- there's a chance he might not be okay?" Mickey isn't sure why he asks, but the patient doesn't seem to mind. 

The doctor clears his throat before responding hesitantly, "There's always a possibility of an inter-cranial bleeding when it comes to head injuries, yes."

The confusion on the patient's face quickly transitions to something Mickey recognizes as fear. 

"I'll have a nurse come by in a minute or two and she'll ask you a few questions," Doctor Bernstein says as he grabs a flashing pager from his waistband and reads its alarm, "Mickey, you should probably leave Ian to get some rest."

"No," Ian's voice cracks as he tries to shout, his energy obviously fading by the second, "I just- stay, alright?"

The doctor eyes them both with concern before nodding once and disappearing behind the sheet of curtains. 

"You hit the ice," Ian says, his voice quiet as he leans back tiredly into the loosely stuffed pillow, "You tried to stop, but there was ice."

Another image flashes violently through Mickey's mind; the panic almost feels real as he remembers slamming down on his car's breaks, only to find that his control had been lost to a late sheet of black ice. The truck he'd hit had been flying through the otherwise empty intersection, trying to beat the yellow light. It must've been a shock when Mickey's Chevrolet slammed into Ian's driver's side door. 

"Right," Mickey mumbles as he paces the small area, trying to bring back the rest of his memories, "So how the fuck did you see me?"

"Adrenaline, or something," Ian's words are slurring together, and his eyelids can't seem to stay open, "Looked out my window. Thought you were dead."

Having passed out the moment his forehead collided with his steering wheel, Mickey has a hard time imagining the sight. 

"Glad I'm not," Mickey admits, thinking of his band and the show they'd played hours before the accident. It only serves to remind him that his guitar was in the passenger's seat, and he asks hesitantly, "How'd my baby look?"

A small laugh escapes Ian's throat, only to be followed by a cough. After a moment, he shrugs and answers, "like one of those instruments that scrunch up."

Mickey's jaw drops, "You mean a fuckin' accordion?" 

Catching Mickey's distraught expression makes Ian laugh louder and he nods wholeheartedly, "Exactly like an accordion." 

"Jesus Christ," Mickey mutters, feeling the overwhelming need to sit down. As he looks around, Ian seems to notice his hesitation and uses the hand that isn't broken to shift his legs lazily to the side. 

Mickey doesn't thank Ian as he takes the seat, but it's a break from the pain in his leg and he breaths out a content sigh of relief the moment the pressure's taken off. 

"I'm Ian, by the way," the red-head mumbles after a moments silence, not bothering to raise his hand to shake Mickey's; neither seemed overly worried about the formalities, "You probably caught that."

"Yeah," Mickey nods and stares down at his tattooed knuckles. The guitar had cost him nearly half a year worth of tips, and there was a good chance he'd never see it again. On a more positive note, at least he didn't look like Ian, "I'm Mickey, nice to fuckin' meet you." 

"I'm not sure who's supposed to sue who, here," Ian teases, and Mickey can't help but laugh. 

"We supposed to sue the fuckin' cold weather?" 

The red-head smiles wide, the cuts on his face stretching as he catches Mickey's silent gaze. It seems, for a second, that they're both unable to look away.

Just as Mickey's about to put an end to what he considered an overly personal interaction, the machine set up next to Ian's bed starts to beep loudly, the pace speeding up quickly as the line on-screen began to change.

"Hey, this guy needs some fuckin' help in here!" Mickey yells as loudly as he can manage, watching helplessly as Ian's limbs begin to jerk and his eyes roll back into his head. As if he's been taxed, Ian's body convulses as the nurses run in. 

"You need to leave," a woman insists as Mickey watches from the side-lines, his eyes wide with panic, "Now, sir."

"I hit him..." Mickey mumbles to the nurse, but she doesn't seem to care; it doesn't take long before a much larger doctor is grabbing him by the arm and dragging him from the room. 

From outside, there's a jumbled mess of voices that Mickey can't decipher, but the word's 'operation room' stand out in his mind. 

"He's hemorrhaging," A doctor is shouting, his voice louder than the rest of the nurses, "Get him on the cart."

"Wait until he's finished seizing," another man demands, and the following silence seems to drag on for minutes.

"Alright, let's go," The voice eventually announces, and Mickey can hear the rustling of tools as they place Ian on the rolling cart.

It isn't until Ian is being pushed through the curtains that Mickey takes a step back from the room. Just as they're about to wheel the red-head down the hallway, Ian spots Mickey and reaches out to wrap his weak fingers around Mickey's bruised hand.

There's a tear threatening to fall onto Ian's cheek as the doctor attempts to keep pushing him further from Mickey, and all he manages to say before their hold is ripped apart is, "Don't go." 

It takes Mickey a moment to register what had just happened, watching in a daze as his hand falls back to his side, "Wait, where the hell are you takin' him? What's wrong with him?" 

Not a single doctor replies to him as they push the cart into an open elevator door, leaving Mickey standing alone in the middle of the floor, staring at the same hand Ian had just grabbed when he'd asked him not to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning sun is rising as Mickey stumbles through the large, glass doors and out into the chilly, winter snowfall. A pair of crutches are currently driving him half-insane, and he swears angrily at the inanimate objects as they catch on an uneven sidewalk square. The emergency team had left behind a clear bag, filled with everything that Mickey had on him during the accident. They’d taken his outfit, as it was probably soaked with blood and covered in glass, but left behind a half-destroyed pack of smokes, his cellphone, a lighter, and a guitar pick. The guitar pick serves little to no use without an actual guitar, and Mickey tosses it carelessly to the cement.

As soon as the flame reaches the end of the smoke, an overwhelming inhalation of nicotine spreads through Mickey’s lungs and he exhales a thick cloud of smoke. It’d been a long night; the cigarette helped calm his racing heartbeat just a little. Snow was falling into his hair and onto his bare skin, and because all he’d been able to find was a plain white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he had no choice but to bare through the cold. 

However, it wouldn’t matter how many smokes Mickey could burn through, he’d never be able to shake the words repeating over and over in his mind, ‘don’t go.’ 

"Mr. Milkovich?" A voice surprises Mickey, and he spins around to find a nurse bundled in a heavy coat, "Are you-"

"Yeah, I am," Mickey answers before she has the chance to finish, looking around anxiously for a non-smoking sign, "Am I breakin’ the fuckin’ hospital rules or some shit?"

The nurse shakes her head no, stepping closer as she raises her voice over the sound of oncoming sirens, “It’s about our John Doe.” 

Mickey raises his eyebrow, taking a quick drag from his cigarette, “John-who?” 

The nurse looks confused for a moment, as if she’d walked up to the wrong person, “He claims his name is Ian, but he has no information and may have been affected by the injury. Doctor Bernstein sent me to find you?” 

"Oh, uh," Mickey stares down at the smoke, trying to convince himself that it didn’t matter what the nurse was about to tell him, Ian was a complete stranger and there was no reason he should care this much. It takes him a second to find his voice, "He alright?"

"Well, he had what the doctors call a hemorrhage," The nurse speaks slowly, and Mickey grows more anxious every second she drags on the explanation, "The blood attributed to the car accident irritated Ian’s brain tissues, and it caused swelling, eventually resulting in a hematoma. He’s still in surgery, but they’ve already managed to alleviate the swelling and prevent future bleeding."

Most of what the nurse says flies right over Mickey’s head, but she’s smiling and he takes that as a good sign.

"He’ll probably be out cold for a few hours, and then we’ll have to run a series of tests to determine how Ian responded to the surgery."

The relief that overcomes Mickey’s mind is something he hasn’t felt before, and so it doesn’t make any sense to him why he cares so much about a total stranger.  
"But, he was admitted without a phone or a wallet. There’s no one to call at this point, and we usually encourage someone stay with a patient during the first few days of recovery."

It takes Mickey a second to realize what the nurse is proposing, “What- you mean me?” 

The hope in the nurses expression almost seems genuine, “Just until we’ve determined who his family is and who can take care of him. The recovery stages of brain damage aren’t easy to deal with, and the doctor mentioned he’d asked for you specifically.”

His cellphone, miraculously, wasn’t smashed during the accident. The clock flashes ‘6:03’ and he yawns tiredly before dropping his smoke and crushing it with his heel, “Sure, whatever. Where should I wait?”

The nurse follows him back inside the warm, white-walled building, and gestures to the waiting area, “I can come find you when he’s out.” 

Mickey nods casually as the nurse waves, finding a chair that isn’t surrounded by miserable family members, and leans back into the uncomfortable plastic furniture.   
The reality of the situation crashes down on him after about twenty minutes of staring at the tiny television in the corner of the room. The only manner of transportation that Mickey had was his car, and now it’s gone. His main source of income came from playing guitar, and that’s been lost along with the ‘accordion-style’ car. 

He typed out a quick text to his band-mates, hoping that they wouldn’t want to kick him out of the group for missing yet another rehearsal session, and closed his eyes. There wasn’t much else he could do at this point but sleep, and Mickey found himself dreaming about the red-head who’d grabbed his hand. 

"Mickey." 

Someone’s shaking his shoulder and calling his name, but Mickey’s sure he’s at home in bed, “Fuck off, I don’t want any eggs.”

"No, Mr. Milkovich."

The voice is persistent and familiar, but when Mickey opens his eyes, it’s not his little sister trying to wake him up for breakfast. 

"Ian’s awake now, the surgery was successful, but he’s not saying much. We were wondering if you’d join us?" 

The blinding white lights remind Mickey of exactly where he is, and he quickly checks his phone. It’s nearing ten now, so he figures that’s the reason his neck is in a knot.

Just as he’s about to get up, the nurse reaches foreword and slips her arm behind his back, “Your leg.”

"Oh," Mickey mumbles, having forgotten all about his broken bone, "Right. Where’s those fuckin' sticks?"

The nurse chuckles lightly as she passes Mickey the crutches, “They just take some getting used to.”

There’s nothing about walking with double-cane’s that Mickey can get used to, but he huffs out a sigh anyways, “Yeah, sure.”

The nurse nods to the front desk, “Can I offer you a wheel chair?” 

"Fuck no, I don’t want a chair," Mickey snaps back, and the nurse grins sheepishly, "Where we going, anyways?"

"Floor three, intensive care unit," the nurse answers, leading Mickey to the elevators and pressing the ‘3’ button, "The doctor said you’re the other crash victim?"

"I’m the idiot that was driving to fast on a fuckin’ icy road," Mickey snorts humourlessly, feeling slightly apprehensive as the doors slide open and the nurse steps out, "You sure he wants me there?"

The nurse nods immediately as Mickey follows her down a hall, “He asked for you as soon as he opened his eyes. It’s one of the few things he’s said.”

"I don’t even know the guy," Mickey protests half-heartedly, ignoring the flutter beneath his ribs as the nurse stops in front of a room with a door and curtain-covered window. She frowns as Mickey looks around the floor, as if he might be contemplating taking off in the other direction. 

The nurse sounds more than genuine as she pleads, “You might be all he have right now.” 

With a deep breath, Mickey nods and steps into the room.

Ian doesn’t say anything as they catch each others stare; Doctor Bernstein is the first to speak, “Mr. Milkovich, you stayed.”

"Your nurse told me too," Mickey mutters under his breath, gesturing to the door she’d quickly scurries out of. 

"Yes, well," Doctor Bernstein takes a couple steps closer to Mickey, his voice falling an octave quieter before continuing, "Ian doesn’t seem to remember his family or friends. While there is always a chance of memory loss after a surgery such as he went through, he still seems to remember your name. It might serve as beneficial if you two talked, and maybe discussed the accident."

Whenever Mickey was faced with an emotion he wasn’t quite sure how to cope with, his attitude tended to quickly fade into something more aggressive.

"Maybe if you gave him some fucking time to think," Mickey’s voice rises as he lifts his arms in disbelief, rounding the room until he’s standing at the end of Ian’s bed, "he’d be able to remember shit! You’ve probably been drillin’ him with questions since he opened his damn eyes!"

The doctor’s eyes narrow as he stands back, “Sir, it’s standard pro-.”

Ian interrupts before Mickey can tell the doctor to shove his procedure up his ass, “It’s okay, it’s fine. Uh, do you think we could have a minute or two?”

The doctor agrees solemnly as Mickey glares at him on his way out the door.

"You actually hung around," Ian says incredulously as the door shuts behind the doctor, and Mickey’s cheeks nearly redden at the comment, "Didn’t think I’d see you again."

"Yeah, well," Mickey’s mumbling as his eyes travel the small room, attempting to look anywhere else but into Ian’s endearingly green eyes, "You asked me too."  
Ian laughs nervously, “I did?”

Mickey raises an eyebrow, finally letting his gaze fall on the injured patient. He hadn’t realized, when he’d walked in, that Ian’s red-hair had been shaved off before surgery, replaced by a bandage that wrapped around his head. It’s comforting to find that Ian’s face is slightly more healed than the night, but his once rosy skin is pale now, and it’s obvious to Mickey that he’s in desperate need of some rest. 

When Ian had grabbed Mickey’s hand and asked him not to leave, it hadn’t occurred to Mickey that he probably wasn’t thinking straight, and suddenly he feels more embarrassed than he had before. It was the look of desperation in Ian’s eyes that had convinced him it was the right thing to do, and it was the kindness to his words that had made Mickey want to stay. 

"Forget it," Mickey answers, brushing off Ian’s expectant stare, "How you feeling? As bad as you fuckin’ look?"

The laugh that escapes Ian’s lips surprises Mickey, and a small grin creeps onto his expression as the red-head answers, “Have you even looked in a mirror yet?”

"Fair point," Mickey concedes; admittedly, he hadn’t had the chance yet to check out his own injuries, "At least I don’t look like the fuckin’ muffler-man."

Ian laughs even louder at that, and Mickey can’t help but notice the way a small wrinkle forms around his bright eyes as he smiles. With a groan, Ian attempts to lift his head, “Jesus Christ, three broken bones.” 

There’s a cast covering Ian’s left wrist and ankle, and a splint around his right hand. Mickey nearly cringes at the sight, and fights the urge to coerce Ian back into a resting position. Mickey find's himself nervously settling onto the end of the cot and laying a shaky palm over the hardened shell of the cast around his ankle.  
"Sorry about that." 

Ian shakes his head as if to disregard the comment, "Nah man, I'm sorry. Should've seen you slide out like that." 

Mickey looks up to where Ian is struggling to sit up still, and finds himself cringing at the sight, "Hey, lie the fuck back down, man. You got stitches up your damn stomach." 

With a heavy sigh, the red-head falls tiredly back into the pillow. There's bags beneath his eye's and a cave to his freckled cheeks. The silence is quickly filled with a rumble erupting from beneath Ian's sheets. 

The sound causes Mickey to glance over at Ian with concern, "When's the last time you fuckin' ate?"

Ian seems to think for a moment before answering hesitantly, "Maybe, like, a day or two before the accident?" 

"Well, I'm fuckin' starvin'," Mickey stands up from the bed with a huff; he's not really that hungry, but he doesn't want to seem as though he's babysitting when he asks, "What do you want?" 

There's a feebleness in Ian's voice as he responds, "I don’t think I could eat. I feel sick, they've got me on so much shit." 

Mickey's chest sinks at the idea and he stubbornly insists, "You've gotta have, like, a favorite food or something." 

"Alright," Ian answers with a small smile, surrendering to Mickey's persistent attitude, "What about a greasy poutine, with all that cheese and gravy?" 

A sense of shyness overcomes Mickey as he releases what he's offering to do for who should be a total stranger, but nods anyway as he turns and heads for the door.  
"Hey," Ian stops Mickey the second before the door shuts, sounding worn as he calls, "Thanks." 

Feeling momentarily speechless, Mickey simply nods once more and closes the door. 

An overwhelming sense of apprehension follows Mickey as he slowly finds his way to the crowded cafeteria. On a pair of crutches and dressed in the hospitals clothing, none of the doctors give him a second glance, and Mickey struggles to rest his crutches against a table and fish out a five dollar bill from his wallet. 

"Uh, poutine," He mutters to the cafeteria lady when he finally reaches the counter, passing her the five dollar bill in exchange for a tray of fries and fifty cents worth of change. 

The recognition dawns on Mickey, as he stands and stares at the busy ward, that he could leave now and Ian would never see him again. It'd be easier than dealing with the overcoming sense that he might just be interested in the red-headed stranger laying injured and helpless on a hospital cot. Ever since he'd come to New York, he'd mostly avoided unnecessary interaction at all costs, but it suddenly didn’t feel right to leave this one alone. 

"Fuck it," Mickey mumbles to himself as he grabs his crutches, limping back to the room he'd left moments before with a racing heart and a determination to prove his own habits wrong. As he pushes open the door, Mickey lifts the tray and asks eagerly, "You hungry yet?" 

A soft snore answers his question, and Mickey looks over to find that Ian has already fallen asleep, his eyes closed and his breath coming out in small huffs. The sight is almost more comforting that watching him groan with pain over his aching body, and Mickey sets down the fries with a soft sigh. 

The blanket that Ian had been covering himself with is on the floor, and he uses his crutch to lift the material to his hand. With a gentleness Mickey didn’t often demonstrate, he sets the blanket lightly over the red-head and tugs it closer to his chin. 

The doctor walks in just as Mickey's about to sneak out, "Oh, Mickey." 

"He's sleeping," Mickey grumbles as he pushes the doctor back out of the room, "Looked pretty fuckin' tired, maybe save the questions." 

Doctor Bernstein nods with assurance and stretches out an open palm, "Thank you, for you help." 

Mickey stares down at his expectant, outstretched hand with a raised eyebrow, "Right. See ya, Doc. I look foreword to the fuckin' medical bill." 

If the doctor says anything else, Mickey doesn’t hear him. The hospital is loud with beeps and alarms that are beginning to drive him slightly insane, and along with the frustration of walking on crutches, Mickey decides to head straight for the exit and notices that he can finally breath when the fresh air hits his bare skin. 

"I gotta fuckin' go home," Mickey mutters to himself after a minute or two of lingering outside the hospital walls, and lights another cigarette as he contemplates how to deal with a whole list of problems that weren't on his mind twelve hours prior.


	3. Chapter 3

The roads suddenly seem far more daunting as Mickey stares out the passenger-side window, listening as the elderly cab driver hums a song sung in Italian and curiously eyes every other car on the road. A light snow is falling across the glass, and the windshield washers push it back every four or five seconds as Mickey contemplates just how many accidents he avoids on a daily basis. It's bound to happen to anyone with the willpower to climb behind a steering wheel and drive, yet Mickey hadn't expected it'd ever happen to him.

After a few minutes, the grey-haired driver waves to Mickey's casted leg and asks, "Did you fall on the ice?"

The driver's accent is so thick that Mickey can barely understand what he's saying, "My leg? Fuck, that probably would've been better." 

"But, you are alive," The old man grins now, nodding confidently as he pulls to a stop at a busy intersection, "That is all that matter's- no?" 

Mickey could almost laugh at the absurdity and vagueness to the man's seemingly wise advice, and his hands rise in the air as he huffs out, "I don’t fuckin' know, man. What about money and all that other shit?" 

The question seems to cause the man to think for a moment, and Mickey stares out the window and back at the oncoming traffic, trying not to think too deeply into the subject matter. If nothing else mattered, than he wouldn’t feel so stressed about what the hell he was going to do next. 

"Amare," The man eventually announces in an Italian accent, the world rolling off his tongue naturally as a tireless smile breaks across his wrinkled face, "Love, my friend. Being alive is not worth it if you do not have un amore." 

The responding sound from Mickey is something caught between a snort and a laugh, and he looks over at the elderly man with disbelief, "Un fucking amore? You live in New York too, right?" 

The cab driver chuckles lightly as he follows Mickey's directions through the city, gesturing to a couple with a stroller enjoying a breakfast on a heated patio as they pull away from the stop, "Even in a city such as this one, you can find love my friend." 

Because it's the face of an injured red-head that unwillingly appears into Mickey's mind, he decides the conversation is best left alone and cranks the Italian nonsense on the audio player. Only, the thought doesn’t leave his mind; the realization falls upon him as he watches people stroll arm in arm down the sidewalks, that he's essentially alone. It’s been months since the youngest Milkovich son had run away from Terry's rundown home in the south side of Chicago, and yet all he's managed to do is audition for a band that cares as little about him as he does about them. 

"On your right," Mickey mumbles as he nods to his apartment building, staring up at the tall brick building where he'd recently started renting a room. It isn't fancy or modern, but he likes the window's; they're bulky and screen-less, just like he'd had back at home, "Thanks, man." 

As Mickey holds out a wad of cash that he desperately doesn’t want to let go off, the older man shakes his head and pushes the money back towards him, "No, you came from the hospital; I just couldn’t." 

"Oh, that's…" Mickey doesn’t know how to address such a gesture of kindness, but the cab driver interrupts him anyways, "Find whatever makes you happy that you're alive, my friend." 

With a nod, Mickey stuffs the cash back into his wallet and slaps the top of the car before it drives away. His room is on the fourth floor, so he steps into the elevator alongside another woman that he hadn't seen inside the building before. She stares at his crutches with sympathy in her expression, and Mickey leans against the back of the elevator and lets his weight lift off the sticks. 

The key to his apartment is mixed in along with the change in his wallet, and he spends a moment of frustration trying to fish out the small ring and push open the heavy door. 

"Oh, fuck," Mickey swears to himself the second he's put his stuff down, noticing a pile of snow that had made it's way in through a window he'd forgotten to close. There's four that line the main wall facing the street, stretching from the wooden floor to the industrial-style ceiling, and faded red bricks surrounds the frames. He's never bothered with installing curtains, finding that it was easier to leave the lights off and let the sun do it's job. 

The whole apartment is essentially one large room, and so Mickey tosses himself onto the mattress he qualifies as a bed, curling into the warmth of his own sheets and pillow. It only feels comforting until he remembers what he left back at the hospital.

In an attempt to distract himself, he changes his outfit and starts a fresh pot of coffee. It seems to drip slower than ever before, so he tidies his small kitchen, wiping down the small bar that faces the TV room and watering the few plants he's managed to accumulate. There's a single smoke left on the worn wooden table and he pours a mug of coffee, settling onto the windowsill and lighting the smoke as he thoughtlessly watches the cars driving by. 

As Mickey tries to push thoughts of Ian to the back of his mind, ones he'd been avoiding start to surface. He'd been entertaining himself with music and drinking, it'd been weeks since he'd even thought about home. A few days ago, the youngest Milkovich daughter had sent him a text, 'terry's out of jail.' Because no one had told his dad he'd even moved out, Mickey was stuck wondering whether he cared at all. He'd texted Mandy back asking if she'd stayed, but there was never a response.

The urge to play his guitar grows with every second Mickey feels anxious inside his own home, and his fingers are nearly shaking as he paces the mostly unfurnished room, kicking at the floor and contemplating just how easy it'd be to fall back into stealing the shit he needed like he'd done in south side. 

After the more mature realization that he really doesn’t want to get involved with the law, Mickey pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through his contacts until he lands on Adam, the guy who'd interviewed him for the gig in the first place. 

"Hey, Mickey," Adam answers, his voice unsure as he continues, "What the hell happened, you said you can't practice?" 

"Uh, car accident. Guitar got smashed," Mickey admits with a groan, throwing himself down on the futon and swinging one arm over the back, "Broke my leg, too. Fuckin' limping everywhere." 

They haven't known each other long but Adam seems to appreciate Mickeys sense of humor, laughing as he responds, "No shit. Well, hey- I've got an extra, but it's acoustic. You ever played?" 

"Uh, maybe a couple times," Mickey had grown up with an electric guitar and an amp that went as loud as he wanted it too, but he'd take what he could get, "You sure you don’t mind?" 

"No, man, not at all," Adam sounds genuinely happy to help their newest band-mate out, and Mickey can hear rustling through the speaker as he asks, "I could bring it over tonight, we could play a little? I've got beers, and a little bud if you're interested." 

The offer sounds more than tempting enough; he hasn’t heard the word 'bud' once in NY, and he's been dying for a hook up, and along with the opportunity to finally practice a song or two, Mickey knows he should say yes. 

"Fuck, I'm still all foggy from the concussion," Mickey isn’t totally sure why he's lying but continues anyways, "It's supposed to knock me out for a couple days- You care if we just meet up with everyone on Thursday?" 

"Oh, no problem," Adam responds after a beat of silence, his voice sounding much less enthusiastic than before, "You should get better. See you Thursday." 

As Mickey hangs up the phone with a heavy sigh, it becomes obvious that the harder he tries not to think about Ian, the worst he feels. The collision was an accident, and Ian had survived; Mickey should feel fine, guilt free. Instead, he can't stop picturing the casts around Ian's body or the bandage around his head, and apart from the injuries, Ian's warm smile refuses to fade from his memory. There's a small part of him that wonders why Ian isn't just a little bit angry with him, or why he'd even talked to Mickey in the first place. Another part of him wonders why he wants to make sure Ian's okay. 

There's not much he has in the way of entertainment, but Mickey grabs a deck of cards and a couple of books he'd actually taken the chance to read and throws them in a worn backpack. On second thought, he tosses in a t-shirt he doesn’t often wear and a heavy sweater that looks warm enough to go outside in. 

The only mirror in his house catches Mickey's attention as he's heading towards the door, and his own appearance throws him off guard. There's a layer of stubble across his jaw, and the stitches are both obvious and eye-catching. As sense of self consciousness overwhelms him, but it's not something he hasn't felt before. 

It does, however, persuade him into going to the bar instead of the hospital. Mickey orders a drink the second he's at the counter, slipping onto a stool and setting his crutches down, "Shot of whiskey." 

The small glass shakes in his hands, but Mickey ignores the restlessness and quickly finish's the liquor. 

Finishes another. And another. 

The sky is already dark again by the time Mickey stops drunkenly humming the words to a rock song and checks the time. The bartender nods to him as he stumbles from his stool, but he doesn’t bother waving back. His head is fuzzy and the air is cold when he steps out of the bar, and the bus pulls up just as he's about to stick out his thumb for a cab. 

"This go up fifth?" Mickey asks a person stepping into the bus, who grumbles a 'yes' before disappearing into the vehicle. There's just enough change in his pocket to pay for the ride, and he falls into a seat near the back with a loud groan. His leg aches, and he'd forgotten to take Tylenol that morning; the alcohol doesn’t dull the pain as much as he'd hoped.

The hospital doesn’t seem so scary three shots in, and Mickey shrugs the backpack over his shoulders as the bus pulls up out front. Everything takes longer on crutches, and by the time he's finally reaching the elevators, Mickey's out of breath and panting for air. A nurse eyes him curiously, "Sir, are you okay?" 

"Oh, 'm fuckin' fine," Mickey responds, attempting to straighten himself out. The nurse nods somewhat hesitantly as they both step off into the intensive care unit, and he doesn’t have to look for signs anymore; he remembers exactly where Ian's room is. There doesn’t seem to be any doctors lingering outside the door, and Mickey does his best to go unnoticed as he limps across the floor. 

The curtains are closed, and Mickey's still breathless as he chooses not to think before opening the door. 

Ian's eyes widen as he looks up from the plate of half-eaten cold fries in his lap, "Mickey." 

Mickey's still attempting to catch his breath, dropping his crutches to the floor with a clash and leaning against the wall with a careless grin, "Hey." 

"Are you drunk?" Ian asks curiously, a smile creeping over his tired expression.

The backpack slips from Mickey's shoulders, and he tosses it onto the end of Ian's bed, "I brought cards. You know go fish?" 

The laugh that erupts from Ian's lips is enough to make Mickey sure that coming back to the hospital was, no doubt, a very good decision. He watches with a blush on his cheeks as Ian reaches foreword with an obvious excitement to his attitude, emptying the contents quickly. The book catches the red-heads attention first, and he scoops it up with the hand that isn't in a cast, "The first books to the Lord of the Ring series?" 

Mickey doesn’t bother grabbing his crutches as he hops across the room and leans against the cot, "It's a fucking good book, alright?" 

"I know, I've read it," Ian winks playfully as he grabs the pack of cards, "Alright, scoot over."

The bed isn't that that big, but Mickey settles against Ian's legs in an attempt to make room. As they both notice the small touch, Ian waits a moment as if expecting the his guest to move. There's a chance Mickey was feeling a little tipsy, but he didn’t shift. Instead, they shared a brief stare, as if waiting for the other man to move away. After it became obvious that neither minded, Ian grinned and began to deal the cards out. 

"Brought you some clothes too," Mickey casually gestures to the bag, focusing on the cards spread out on the sheet and ignoring his own embarrassment, "Didn't know if you'd wanna go out for a fuckin' smoke or somethin'."

Ian's returning sigh of relief changes his mind, "You have smokes? Jesus Christ- can we go now?" 

Mickey looks down at him hesitantly before getting up and heading towards the door, "One second." 

On the floor, Mickey spots an empty wheelchair near a desk and wanders over to it, trying to be inconspicuous as he quickly wheels it back into Ian's room, "Here." 

"Oh, no fuckin' way- I've always wanted to ride around in one of these," Ian sounds so genuinely excited that Mickey can't help but laugh as he helps him slip the sweater over his arms. It's baggy, and Ian lifts his arms and peers down at the material, "I don’t know about you, but I like it."

Mickey grins as Ian settles into the chair, using the handles to support himself as he limps onto the main floor. The hospital is less busy now, and they manage to be the only two on the elevator as the doors slide shut.

"You don’t really need to be doing this," Ian says softly as he stares up at Mickey from the chair, "So thank you." 

Mickey want's to tell him that it's because he wants to do it, but instead he asks, "So, you really can't remember your family?" 

Ian looks down as if he might not have been telling the whole truth, and when they eventually meet each others stare, its obvious that it’s a long story. You don’t grow up with Terry as a father without realizing that sometimes, your family is better left in the past. Feeling as though Ian might have a similar story, the share a look of understanding and Mickey pushes them through the opening elevator doors. 

Through the large window, it's apparent now that the snows coming down harder than it had before. There's a slight overhang off the side of the building and Mickey pushes the chair to a spot both secluded and dry before he pulls out two smokes. 

Ian only has one usable hand, and Mickey waits until he's lifted the smoke to reach forward with the lighter. The cold air causes his hand to shake just enough to make the flame waver, and it takes him a second to focus on the cigarette and not on the way Ian's lips wrap gently around it. The red-head has his eyes on Mickey, his gaze travelling over him as if it's the first time they've met, and both men find themselves holding their breath as the cigarette struggles to catch fire and they share the small space.

"I think the accident was actually a good thing," Ian says after a moment, laughing at the look of concern he receives from Mickey, "In a way, anyways." 

"We both could've fuckin' died. How is that good?" 

"Well," Ian takes a drag off his smoke, exhaling through a smile, "I met you, and you're the first person I've talked to in New York. I figure that’s a good sign." 

Mickey tries and fails to brush off the way his hear practically skips a beat, "Right-welcome to fuckin' New York." 

Ian's voice drops to a whisper as he confesses, "I stole the car. Now they'll never find it, right?"


	4. Chapter 4

There's a third-degree burn on Ian's palm on he's completely breathless, but the sky is a bright blue and he's running faster than he ever has before. 

"Fuck you!" He shouts as loudly as he can, but there's no one following him through the large sandy plains, and he shoots a middle finger up at the clouds and lets himself laugh for the first time in months. 

The highway is only a five mile run from Ian's base camp, but he's still dressed in soldier's uniform and has a duffel bag hung over his shoulders. There was no way anyone would know it was Ian who attempted and failed to hot-wire one of the largest helicopters in the hanger, but they'd soon figure it out.

It doesn't take long for someone to pull over and pick Ian up; the uniform always earns respect, even if he doesn't deserve it right now. 

With a heartbeat that won't slow and seemingly endless energy, Ian slides eagerly into the strangers car. They exchange a few kind words before the man behind the drivers seat asks, "So what's waiting for you in New York?"

The idea is one that Ian hadn't really considered; all he knew is that he couldn't survive another day in the army. 

Instead of explaining, he answers simply, "Life, man."

A few hours later they pull into a highway-side gas station, and the man nods quickly before getting out to fill the tank.

It's a spur of the moment decision when Ian looks over, watching the stranger disappear behind the glass doors as he slides into the driver's side seat.

There is no shake to his hands as he grips the wheel and spins the key, feeling confident and he whips out onto the highway. In the rear view mirror, Ian catches sight of the driver running out of the door with his hands in the air.

That's when the seriousness of what Ian's just done begins to sink in. He's staring out at the road and waiting for sirens, distracting himself with the radio as his seemingly endless energy finally begins to fade. 

"Fucking hell," he mutters to himself, staring at the burn on his palm and wishing it didn't sting so much. With a groan, he shrugs off his jacket and throws the uniform into the backseat. There's an old rag in his duffel bag, and he uses one hand to reach over and fish it out. The burn's ache doesn't fade as he wraps the material around his hand, but it'll work until he finds a motel. 

New York's first exit isn't far from where they'd stopped, and Ian's relieved to find the cops hadn't caught up to him by the time he pulled out into the city. 

The sun had fallen hours ago, and Ian stares up at all the city lights. It's almost mesmerizing to see such life at night, and he finds it hard to focus on the road. When he was living in Chicago with the rest of his brothers and sisters, they'd lived in an old house in south-side; it didn't look anything like this, though. 

There's an intersection coming up, but Ian's gazing up at a billboard with glossy eyes. The light switches from red to green just as he's approaching, and because he hasn't slowed down, he considers himself lucky and continues through with his foot on the gas. 

That is, until he looks out the window to his left and a driver who'd thought he had a green, was being given a red light at the last second. 

"Fuck, stop!" Ian screams, and tries to hammer his breaks, but it's useless. 

The driver in a car much smaller than the pick-up he'd stolen attempts to stop but there's a patch of ice beneath his wheels, just before the stop-line.

It doesn't take more than a millisecond for Ian to realize he doesn't have a belt on, and then he's flying across the front seats, his skull smashing into the glass.

Everything seems white, but the pain is gone. His body feels limp, somehow, like he doesn't have control over a few of his own limbs.

There's people stopping now, but Ian can't do much else than lean against the smashed interior.

When his vision eventually focuses, the first thing his eyes land on is the driver in the other car, it's front smashed in and smoke drifting from its crushed ending. The man's head is lifeless against the back of his chair, blood dripping from a gash in his forehead. 

"Shit," Ian mumbles- he needs to get out and help. There's no movement when he attempts to lift his leg or arm, and just as he tries to sit up, the world fades to black.

When he opens his eyes and expects to be in his army cot, waiting for the colonel to wake them up with a loud shout, the sight of a nurse nearly sends him into hysterics.

"Get away from me!" He shouts and tries to shift off the bed; it's no use, they have his legs tied down.

They aren't tied down, however; they're simply broken.

A doctor appears and begins to explain that he's had an accident, but Ian doesn't remember any accident. The last he knew, he was trying to fall asleep in the bunker. 

The burn on his hand has been wrapped and there's splints on his seemingly broken fingers, and the panic builds as Ian's confusion continues to grow.

"This the guy I hit?" A deep voice surprises Ian, and as soon as he catches sight of the familiar face, his night comes creeping back into his memory.

His prior decisions are hard to make sense of now that Ian feels a little more sober; he'd attempted to steal numerous military tools, left without notice, and hadn't even enlisted under his actual name. The actions were fuelled by a wave of adrenaline he's yet to determine the cause of. 

The doctor asks if him and the stranger have met before after Ian mumbles his confusion aloud, but shakes his head no, "No, just... I looked out my window... Your head was bleeding?"

It's almost endearing to see someone act so casual about a line of stitches, and Ian can't help but grin as the stranger answers, "Was it? I didn't notice."

The doctor attempts to explain everything that had happened after the accident, but Ian's not paying a lick of attention. His head is spinning and his body hurts and the stranger leaning on the wall across from his cot distracts him from thinking about anything else.

It doesn't occur to him that the doctor had been discussing his injuries until Mickey's expression falls and he snaps back at the older man, "So, what- there's a chance he might not be okay?"

As soon as the doctor mentions bleeding in his brain, Ian can feel the blood drain from his face. The stranger catches his worried stare, attempting to comfort him through a glance alone.

"Mickey, you should probably leave Ian to get some rest," the older man says as he slides through the door, but Ian is scared and dizzy and doesn't want to be alone. More so, he doesn't want Mickey to leave. 

"No!" Ian's voice isn't nearly as powerful as he'd expected, but the man stays behind anyways. 

It's more than relieving to talk to Mickey after he was sure he'd watched him die, and the realization that he wasn't angry or pissed off settled a pit in Ian's chest. 

There was a kindness behind the stranger's concerned stare, and Ian felt more than appreciative to have someone by his side. Nothing feels real at this point, except for Mickey and the way he's making Ian buckle with laughter over practically nothing. 

The smile they share lasts longer than with anyone soldier he was stationed beside in the army. It's almost enough to send a nervous flutter beneath Ian's chest, and as his heart begins to beat faster, Mickey's face drops. That's all Ian sees before his eyes roll back and everything is black again.


	5. Chapter 5

It was on Mickey's fifteenth birthday when he'd stolen his first car, his chubby, un-tattooed fingers wrapped around a crowbar as his brother's encouraged from a place they could neither be seen nor heard. They needed a way to get across Chicago, and not one of the Milkovich brothers had any money for a bus, or maybe his older brother Iggy just had something in his backpack he didn’t want to transport in public. After three blocks, the gas ran out; presumably the car had been ditched previously, left without a single penny inside. If that was the first and only time they'd ever hijacked a ride, Mickey wouldn’t know that cops track a car even after it's been in an accident. 

"You.. you stole that damn truck?" Mickey blurts out moments after Ian's confession, his outburst stealing the grin right from the red-head's expression. The air is starting to grow to cold, stinging Ian's cheeks with red, but the blood drains from his face as Mickey's tone grows more serious, "Damn it, man- is there someone after you?" 

It's as if Ian can't seem to meet the other man's stare, gazing out at the falling snow instead, "What if there was?" 

"Depends," Mickey leans against the bricks and breathes in a long drag from his smoke, considering just what it is that Ian's gotten himself into.

"Is this one of those bat-shit crazy, ex-girlfriend situations? Or did you manage to piss off the fuckin' pigs, too?" 

That seems to catch Ian's attention, turning quickly in his wheelchair to look up at Mickey with a smug smile on his freckled face, "That'd be ex-boyfriend, and I wouldn’t exactly call him bat-shit. Maybe just a little mentally unstable." 

Ian looks up to see the obvious confusion in Mickey's expression and continues, "I mean, that's not what I'm runnin' from." 

"So," Mickey tries to act as if Ian's confession isn't causing his knees to shake, sucking desperately on the end of the smoke for any sort of peace, "What're you fuckin' runnin' from, then?" 

"Uh," Ian doesn’t answer, instead falling back into a state of paranoia as his gaze flicks back and forth around the empty, snow-covered yard, "You think you can get me out of here?" 

Mickey's lips part for a moment as his breath catches, unable to do anything else but stare back at Ian with wide eyes, trying and failing to sort through his thoughts. The idea sends a jolt to Mickey's chest, something that feels both good and bad, wrong and right; it's been a while since he's felt his knees shake from a sheer thought, but Ian is smiling up at him and there's seemingly no way to slow his racing heart. However, a Milkovich son knows better than to let those feelings show. 

If he'd managed to find his own voice amidst his racing thoughts, Mickey might've asked if the estranged ex was the one who forced him to steal a car and drive to New York. Only, Ian isn't taking any measure to look away from Mickey's shocked gaze, instead staring right back up from his chair as if he isn't oblivious to the glances that other man so often steals. 

The silence is deafening, and yet, they both seem to be carrying on a conversation purely through eye contact; if they are, in fact, communicating through their shared gaze, Mickey is starting to get the feeling that it wasn’t small talk anymore. Just as he parts his lips once more, ready to delve further into the 'ex-boyfriend' situation, an alarm that both men know very well begins to echo through the grounds of the hospital. 

"Shit- I'm beggin' you to tell me that those fuckers ain't here for you." 

Not only is there a small train of cop cars flying into the station, they're quickly followed by a suspiciously tinted black vehicle. If Ian had been smiling before, he definitely wasn’t anymore. 

The sirens are nearly louder than his own words, spilling from his pale lips in panic, "What the hell am I supposed to do now?" 

"Jesus Christ," Mickey mutters and throws his smoke to the cement, wrapping his nearly-frozen fingers around the handles of the stolen wheelchair. There's about sixty feet between the parking lot and where they're standing, trying not to stare too hard as the cops step out and wait for confirmation from the shifty men in black suits. If there's ever an appropriate time to say 'fuck it,' now is it, "Alright, I'm getting you out of here. Hold on to your fuckin' head bandage."

If Ian isn't seriously considering busting out of his casts and breaking into a sprint, he definitely would've laughed at that. Instead, he wraps his hands around the chair's arm rests and braces himself for the snow, wind, and probable speed that Mickey will gain as he limps behind the wheelchair, anxiously trying to reach the bus stop without bringing any attention to themselves.

The wheels creak as they rolled on the snow covered cement, threatening to fall off with each bump in the sidewalk, and while they might've only been five minutes away, it feels more like an hour. Neither speak nor look back, but both men know what's behind them, and that there is a very good chance they're looking for Ian. He didn’t have to tell explain, because Mickey wasn’t going to leave him behind even if the reason wasn’t a moral one; he still isn't exactly sure why. 

Relief comes in the form of two lights attached to the front of a large, overly crowded city bus, pulling up to the curb just as they roll up; if the cops noticed, they aren't going to have an eye on them for very much longer. Because the chair is Mickey's only form of support at the moment, he leans on it as he fishes a couple coins from his pocket. 

"I can't- there's no wheelchair ramp," Ian's looking up the stairs as if they're a mountain he might never conquer, but Mickey shakes his head and denies his doubt. 

"Grab on to me," Sticking his arm out, Mickey uses the other to grab onto the stair's handle. Ian's flashes back with an expression that obviously screams doubt, only furthering the other man's panic, "Listen- we stand out. Your busted up, I'm walking with one god damn leg. If you don't get up right now, someone's gunna catch on real quick." 

With a deep breath in, Ian mutters a quick 'fuck it' and grabs Mickeys arm with all the strength he has left, yanking himself up with a moan as his head begins to immediately spin. 

"Hey, stay with me," Mickey mumbles, shaking Ian a bit as they find a balance; the stairs are a challenge far from easy, but the bus driver seemed to notice their distress and slides the bus into park, jumping to his feet to help them both into a seat closest to the front. 

After they've settled, the man slips behind the wheel and eyes the abandoned wheelchair with concern, "You- You need that?" 

Two flashlights brightly scan the grounds outside, and Mickey watches out the window for barely a second before he shakes his head and waves towards the road, "Forget it, we're quick healers." 

"You sure?" He asks with persistence, peering over his shoulder at the injured red-head who can't seem to catch his breath, his head falling to the side as if it weighed a ton, "I can run out-" 

"He needs sleep, alright? Let's get going," Mickey continues with a bit more crudeness, pointing dramatically at the road ahead. After a minute, the driver nods his head and pulls the bus into drive, squinting just a bit at the snow-covered glass. 

If every single pair of eyes in the bus wasn’t focused on the overly-casted, stitched up men, they might've been able to deduct just how serious the situation was. There wasn't a chance in hell they can whisper quiet enough, though, so instead Mickey nudges Ian's arm, "You doin' alright?" 

"Head hurts, feelin' tired," Ian admits, unable to rest his head against the back of his chair as the window shake roughly above the uneven roads. It takes Mickey a minute to notice before he pushes his pride to the back of his mind and raises his shoulder an inch, nodding to it with a hope that Ian wont make him offer aloud. 

"It's like, fifteen minutes away," Mickey mumbles, fixing his jacket a smidge before he leans against Ian and unintentionally holds his breath, finding himself stiffen as the red-head falls eagerly into his touch, immediately finding relief in the small comfort of relaxing his aching head. 

An odd, lingering look from the older woman across from them catches Mickey's attention after a few minutes, and instead of looking away and hoping for the best, he finds himself unusally defensive. With a threatening snarl, he flashes his knuckles as he always does when it came to scaring people just a little and speaks in a voice quiet enough not to wake Ian, "What the fuck you starin' at, Martha Stewart?" 

Martha Stewart finds somewhere else to stare after that, and Mickey anxiously counts the minutes he'll continue to feel the slight brush of Ian's red hair against his chin, or when he'll pull his hand away from where he'd tiredly let it fall over the other man's legs. There's a silent debate in his own mind on whether he's waiting for this to be over, or dreading when it'll come to an end. 

The snow's finally transitioning into a light powder now, and the sky has reached it's darkest as the bus eventually reaches their stop. As they pull over to the curb, the driver once again parks and stands up, leading Ian to the steps with a gentle arm, watching Mickey carefully as he limps behind them with a grimace on his face; he never did like accepting help from strangers, but the stairs were proving themselves an obstacle he can't handle on his own. 

As they step out, the man gives them a once over and nods nervously to Ian, "He gunna be alright?" 

"Just fine," Mickey mutters, turning away from the bus door before it even closes; Ians' standing on his one solid leg, looking as though he might tip at any moment, but remaining determined none the less. The apartment building has luckily been built without any steps leading to it's front, so the pair find steadiness in each other's hold and use all that they've got to make it behind the glass doors and away from the public eye. "You were with me…at the hospital…" Ian's out of breath as the door's close behind them, and his words come out staggered as Mickey catches his arm, leading them towards the elevator. 

With a sigh of relief, Mickey slams his finger against his floor number's button and watches the door close as Ian nearly slides to the floor, "So what?" 

"The cops will look for you, too," Ian seems almost guilty, but Mickey responds with a laugh an it only furthers the other man's remorse, "What's so damn funny about this?" 

"I signed for this place under 'Ben Dover' 'cause the guy at the front desk really pissed me off that mornin'," Mickey flashes the sleaziest grin he can manage, waiting for Ian to understand the humor- it comes a few seconds later, and he can't help but love the way that the red-head laughs, even if it's followed by a rib-crunching groan, "I guess a good joke goes a long fuckin' way, eh?" 

The way that Ian stares wide-eyed at the other man with appreciation and amazement is more genuine than Mickey's used too, and his instinct is to tell Ian off, but their alone in the elevator and no one's looking at them anymore; there's no doctors, no bus goers, and no one to help Ian if anything goes wrong. It's not as if he'd know what the hell to do, anyways. 

A bell chimes and Mickey steps out of the elevator first, stopping the door so that Ian can take all the time he needs to use the one limb that isn't immobile to fall back into motion. The reality that they'll be alone in an empty apartment isn't a fear he wanted to deal with for quite a while, but it was either that or he loses the man slowly losing strength on his shoulder, collapsing due to extensive physical activity after recent brain damage. 

"You don't have too…" Ian begins to object as they stumble into the apartment together, unable to argue as Mickey leads him towards the mattress and away from the couch, "I don't wanna get in your way." 

"I slept on a couch for eight years," Mickey admits as he remembers a time in Chicago, growing up in a two bedroom house with four siblings and a drunk dad who slept in whichever bed seemed comfiest that night, "I'll deal. I'm grabbin' you a couple painkillers, fix your bandages." 

"When did you become my caretaker?" Ian says from where he'd been left on the bed, trying to push himself up into a sitting position but finding that it felt best when he surrendered to the sheets and pillows, burying himself before continuing, "'M not complainin', I like you more than Doctor Bernstein." 

The radio was still playing from when he'd left it on earlier, but Mickey's focused on Ian's voice and he listens over the music, knowing that it isn't exactly macho to share a smile with himself as he imagines Ian doing the same on the other side of the kitchen's wall. 

Pretending not to have heard, he grabs a glass of water an a couple of pills from the cabinet and tosses them in his palm before crossing the floor, "How's your head feel?" 

An inaudible answer comes from beneath the pillows, and Mickey sets the cup and pills on the nightstand before wandering over to the windowsill to scavenge for a left-behind cigarette. The cold breeze is blowing in through the open window, and he sits on the edge and leans against the frame, undecided on which view is better; the city lights at night, or the stretched out stranger on his mattress, sporting a pair of endearingly fitting hospital sweatpants and a sweater he'd once worn before. 

For once, the nicotine isn't the instant relief as it's always been, and he can't seem to relax himself; there was a whole lot left unsaid before the unexpected cop visit and Ian had a background that he was slowly realizing would continue to remain a mystery. 

A mumble comes from the mattress, catching Mickey's attention as he stubs out the smoke and heads back over to where he'd assumed Ian had fallen asleep, "You need somethin' to eat? I probably got some left over mac n' cheese, but I don’t know how good it is. Shit's been in there a while." 

"No, I-" Ian peeks out from the pillow, his eye's threatening to fall shut again, "I'm a little scared my brains gunna explode when I'm sleepin'?" 

Mickey can't hold back from letting out a small chuckle, unable to admit to himself that he was, maybe, just a tiny bit scared himself, "I don’t know, man- those bandages are real tight. Wait, hold on." 

With a grunt, Ian pushes himself up onto his elbow and looks around the apartment for Mickey, who remains unseen for a minute or two, "Mickey?" 

"Here," Mickey falls next to him on the mattress, holding out a dark green beanie and slipping it over the bandages; they both know it wasn’t of any help, but he swears Ian seemed to relax for just a second at the thought, "There's no fuckin' way your brains goin' anywhere, alright?" 

As he goes to return to his half-smoked cigarette, a familiar hold around his arm causes him to fall back and it's almost as though he's right back in that hospital, staring down at Ian's pleading eyes in shock, "Can you-" 

The way he looks up at Mickey says much more than what he could audibly ask for, and as if he knew just how terrified Ian felt at this moment, he shrugged off the heavy coat he wore, pushed the comforter up and over, and stole the empty mattress space next to Ian. 

For a few minutes, Mickey lay in the dimly lit room wondering if he should take the chance to move as soon as Ian falls back into his coma-like sleep, but how can he? It's the ever-so-slight shift of Ian's body towards him that almost sends him hurdling out from under the sheets, but there's no chance when it's so quickly followed by Ian's palm, sleepily trailing over the thin fabric of his t-shirt and wrapping around his hip as he rests his head just barely on Mickey's chest.

If it had been any other person, at any time, he would've shoved them right off and sent them packing with a warning and the image of his middle finger burned into the back of their minds; this time, when he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, it was comfort that he found instead of fear. While he contemplated embracing the feeling, a wave of exhaustion caught up on him and he surrendered to his impending sleep, unknowingly sliding his fingers through Ian's as they tangled together throughout the late night and into an early morning they'd both surely sleep through.


	6. Chapter 6

Afternoon sunlight streams in through the open windows, setting the room aglow with beams of yellow that cover the hardwood floors. In New York, the cities sidewalks start to overcrowd around six in the morning, but Mickey sleeps through the noise of traffic beneath his apartment, tucked away under his sheets, refusing to acknowledge the day's presence. 

It's not until a loud, sharp crash that he's finally pulled out of his much-needed sleep, sitting up all too quickly; the area beneath the stitches across his forehead begins to pound as the unexpected light blinds him momentarily and he groans, rolling his fists against his unadjusted eyes. 

The second bang is what causes Mickey to reach out to the empty space beside him, opening his eyes and scanning the apartment before he realizes that Ian's no where in site. For a reason he can't pin point, the idea that Ian had simply accepted a night of aid and taken off into the night causes a pit in his stomach. 

If Ian's ankle wasn't just as busted up as his wrist and his hand, Mickey might've assumed that he'd ran off to find a cheap motel room, but the idea that he's limping off somewhere makes the whole situation a little eerie. 

"You on the can?" Mickey calls out as he pushes the sheets off his body, finding that he'd built up a little sweat overnight before tugging off his t-shirt and dropping his sweats. After his question is replied to with silence, his eyes narrow and he wanders into an empty bathroom, no sign of entry at all. 

The water's hot at least half the time, and Mickey spins the tap before staring down at his cast, "God damn it, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?" 

As he considers buying a chainsaw later that afternoon, the water grows cooler and Mickey eventually decides it doesn’t matter in the long run anyways, holding is right leg just barely out the side of his tub as he lets the water cool him after a long night. It doesn’t take more than a minute before he's so curious as to Ian's whereabouts that the only thing he wants anymore is a pack of cigarettes. 

"Where the fuck are you," Mickey mutters to himself as he peers into the kitchen, looking around curiously before walking in with a towel around his waist; the coffee isn't on, the tap hasn’t been used, and it seems like Ian literally got up and ran out like his apartment was a crime scene and he was the murderer. 

The coffee machine runs for roughly ten minutes but Mickey can't wait another three, waiting for the little red light to turn on before he's rushing over to the closet to grab a pair of jeans, hurriedly pairing them with a battered hoodie as he heads towards the door. 

Just before he reaches for the knob, a knock sends him jumping back a few feet, "The fuck is it?" 

"Sir?" 

The first thought that pops into his mind is a police officer, but as he peeks through the peep-hole and notices a young girl with a worried look across her face, Mickey spins the lock and pulls back the door, "Do I… Listen, kid, where's your mom?" 

An expression so scared looks unnatural on a child's face and her little hand reaches out for Mickey's as he asks here once more where he parents are. 

"Mommy's with the hurt man," She answers, tugging on him as she points towards the elevator, "Please, mister." 

Back in Chicago, this would seem like a set-up, or an ambush; a little girl brings you to a secluded area where you 'lose' all your money, and just maybe your life if you didn’t play your cards right. Something about the way she's refusing to stop pulling, holding back tiny tears as Mickey stands still for longer than she's comfortable with, catches his curiosity. 

"His belly is bleeding!" She screams at the top of her lungs, and it only takes those four words to send Mickey's heart plummeting into his chest faster than he can make his feet move, and then run, and in seconds he's sprinting towards the elevator at the end of the hall.

Mickey's met with a sight he was both expecting and dreading, and a very emotional mother has her palms over where a couple of Ian's stitches have been ripped open, trying to put pressure on a wound that just won't stop bleeding. There's red everywhere- it's on the floor of the elevator, flooding through the woman's trembling fingers as she desperately tries to cover the wound, her clothes covered in a strangers blood. 

"I…I was going to call an ambulance, but…my phone's dead, I didn’t charge it this morning, I don’t know why I didn’t-" The woman's rambling through her stress as Ian's shirt soaks through, and Mickey's simply frozen in the hallway, a small child at his hip waiting for him to perform a miracle; the only miracle would be that he remembers to breathe before he passes out. 

"What the fuck happened?" Is all that Mickey can manage, collapsing to his knees beside Ian; his eyes are shut in a way that makes it obvious he'd previously blacked out, and even his own fingers are covered in his blood. Though a Milkovich will always have a high tolerance for gore, the sight of Ian, bleeding out in an elevator, makes him sick with worry. 

The woman seems like a very square mother, sporting a high pony tail and a business-woman outfit, still wearing heels as she shakes with fear, "We were… just standing in here, and he came running, screaming about being chased- there was no one there, but he kept repeating that we had to leave, because the military had snuck into the building." 

As if the little girl carries the most logical thought process, she grabs at Mickeys arm, "The ambu-wance!"

"Oh, shit," In a complete daze, Mickey finds that he's unable to look away from Ian's open stomach; he can't call the cops, because the hospital was a no-go zone in the red-head's books, and yet he couldn’t tell this helpless mother that very-vague explanation, "I- uh, here." 

With a huge swallow, Mickey ripped his hoodie off and frowned down at Ian, hoping that his effort wouldn’t be wasted as he gently moved the woman's hand, replacing it with a tightly wrapped material around the broken stitches, "How'd these even split open?" 

The woman really started to break down now, covering her mouth as her face grew pale with the memory, "He said- he told us that he needed to take his uniform off? And then he- he just…" 

Mickey shakes his head and looks down at Ian once more, watching as his face grows just as ghostly white at it had been hours after the accident, "I need to get him back to my place, alright? I'll call the ambulance, you just- I don’t know, go. Listen, thanks." 

The woman, distressed as a human can be, watches from the corner as Mickey stretches out his arms and lifts Ian in a way that a husband might lift his bride on a wedding day. To add to his grace, he uses the wall as a way to steady his casted leg, hobbling along the side of the hallway as his busted ankle smacks the wall with each step; Ian wasn’t lying, he truly hadn't eaten in days, and it helps Mickey to walk with enough speed to put distance between himself from the woman-hero, who he really hoped would have the common decency to go home, change, and pretend like nothing happened.

"C'mon, Ian," Mickey shakes him desperately after noticing a lull in the blood pouring from the wound, slowing as he attempts to set him down with dignified gentleness After no response and not even a twitch in his expression, he immediately retreats to a make-shift first aid box he'd kept since he was a kid. It's really just a lunchbox, but what was inside always came in handy; in this case, behind the gauze and the hard-core pain killers, he quickly found a needle and thread, and grabbed all four items before heading back to Ian, "Hey, wake up. I can fix this, just- wake the fuck up, Ian." 

No movement from Ian's body causes a shiver to creep down Mickey's spine, but a soft heartbeat spares his hope and he threads a string through the eye of the needle, peeling back the t-shirt as he hopes for the best. It's messy with blood and all Mickey can find is a wet towel, but through his inevitable adrenaline he manages to make due with what he has, "You with me?" 

The soft skin around where the few stitches had been is pale and freckled like his face, shoulders, and chest- Mickey first noticed that about Ian, and the more he saw, the more he was really beginning to like red-heads. One red-head, in particular, but it wasn't nearly the right time to consider his options. 

It’s the first pinch that hurts the most, and as he pulls the wound tight together and begins to thread the needle through the bottom, Ian's eyelids flutter and Mickey's chest does the same.

The second pinch causes Ian's heart beat to quicken, and as the knot forms, he groans a little and Mickey nearly cheers. 

Memories of stitching up his older brothers flood his mind as he pulls the needle over Ian's skin, his fingers brushing gently over his chest with each loop of the knot.

"Jesus Christ," Ian's eyelids seem to force themselves open as he moans a little, looking down at where Mickey's still pulling the string through his bloodied flesh, "You really are my fuckin' doctor, eh?" 

Almost speechless at the sight of bright green in Ian's eyes, Mickey stutter's a moment and finds it hard to do anything but appreciate the fact that the other man in this apartment is alive and speaking, "I think you might'a forgot to tell me about something- you're fuckin' insane, right?" 

It hurts Ian's ribs to laugh, and the stitches threaten to break once again as he does so, "What the fuck happened?" 

"You gave a soccer mom the scare of her whole fuckin' life," He chuckles as he pulls another stitch through, distracted as Ian braces himself for pain and instead finds himself indulging in the brush of Mickey's hand against his chest; he doesn’t seem to notice and continues with a look of both annoyance and amusement, "Must've had a bad dream, or something- she said you wanted your uniform off, 'cause the fuckin' military were up here." 

Ian's grin drops from his face the moment he hears the word uniform, "I did this?" 

"She'll be fine, maybe a little therapy time," Mickey assures him, noticing a moment after that Ian's more concerned about the situation at hand, "Hey, listen- you just had fuckin' brain surgery, I'm sure everythin's a bit foggy still." 

With his eyes on Mickey's hands, Ian reminds himself to breath as he prepares for the inevitable, "I ran, you know? I thought it'd be good- a little discipline, fighting for this country, but it fucking sucked; some of those guys, Mickey, you can't even call them soldiers anymore…" 

"You're a soldier?" Mickey stops stitching and looks up, "You ran- from what, your camp?" 

With a nod, Ian gestures anxiously for Mickey to keep threading before he continues, "I don't know, somethin' happened inside me. You know when something happens, and you get a bunch of adrenaline?"  
As if Mickey wasn't dealing with this right now, with his hands over an open wound across an injured man's stomach. 

"Every single day was startin' to feel like that," Ian's tone grows serious, and its obvious that no one but Mickey's had heard this confession yet, "Until I couldn’t take it no more, so I did somethin' crazy- stole a car, drove to the New York."

"Oh," Mickey breathes out, threading the needle through the last un-pinched skin, "fuck. You still feel like that?" 

"A little," Ian says as Mickey ties the knot, slowly so he can rest his fingers on his chest for a while longer.

"Does it drive you crazy?" 

Ian shrugs, leaning up closer to Mickey, "A little. Makes me wanna do things without really thinking, you know?"

The air suddenly starts to feel warmer, and Mickeys still tying the string, focusing on keeping his hands steady until the needle pulls through and out. 

Before he can cover the wound in gauze, Ian's lifting his hips just barely, rolling them back into the mattress and causing Mickey's mouth to go dry. With his free hand, he pushes Ian's hips back into the sheets and shakes the dirty thoughts from his mind, "Stay still for a second or two, will ya?" 

Ian's hiding a grin now, watching as Mickey wraps tape around the gauze with a careful hand, trying not to look anywhere but directly at his work, "Do you think you could switch my bandage?" 

There's a whole roll, enough to rewrap Ian's head, "Lie back, I'll fuckin check em." 

Ian does as told, holding his breathe as Mickey kneels next to him and undoes the clasp, pulling the bandages back to check for bleeding- as expected, they're just as clean as they should be. 

"You're-" Mickey's inches away from Ian's face, and he's smiling, "What's so damn funny?" 

"Tell me to stop," Ian says without explanation, reaching his arms out behind him to push himself up from the mattress. 

Mickey's eyes narrow in confusion, "What?" 

"Just," Ian says, sitting up now, "If you want me to stop, tell me." 

Falling back on his heels, Mickey's wide-eyed and watching as Ian draws in closer, "I don't know what you're-" 

For a moment, the world stops around them because Ian's meeting his stare, wrapping his palms around Mickey's waist, and pushing him back down into the mattress, "Should I stop?" 

His lips are cut, a few pieces of glass having damaged the soft pink, but Mickey can feel it, taste it maybe, and he's kissing back with just as much force as the one with the fresh stitches. 

Sitting over him with his thighs straddling the other man's sides, Ian lifts his hips and gently rolls back and forth in rhythm with the radio, losing his tempo as Mickey begins to groan just barely with each grind, his fingers digging into Ian's sides with a need for more than just friction. 

"You're all fuckin cut up," Mickey's muttering, but it barely has any meaning; he's instead caught up in the way that Ian's riding him through the thin material of their sweatpants, watching as his body moves like he was once a dancer that knew how to entertain on stage. 

At this point, Ian's far from worried about the comfort of his injuries as he abandons Mickey's hands above his head, instead replacing it with one behind his neck as he kisses the stubble along his jaw and leads him foreword so that they're both sitting up, "I'll heal." 

It's hard for Mickey to deny his nonchalance when Ian's got his lips on his neck, sending a jolt through his body as he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back; he can't seem to do anything when there's a hands threading through his messy hair, tugging ever so slightly whenever Mickey would desperately raise his hips to meet Ian's rhythm. 

"God, that's not fucking fair," His words trail into a low moan as he loses his will to argue, grasping Ian's hips as he takes control and leads his thrusts; they both forget their grace behind and begin to grab at each other's clothes, but as Ian leans back, already without a shirt, there's fresh blood staining the front of Mickey's. 

"Damn," Ian groans and sits back on Mickey's lap, looking down at where a new stitch hasn’t fully healed; because he'd been twisting his body like he was still sixteen, the loose strings didn’t stand much of a chance, "Ill grab another bandage?" 

The morning's only just begun and Mickey's head is already spinning, almost as if he's drunk; there wasn’t anything to drink though, and yet it was Ian's influence that had him dumbfounded. Though he's off-balance and quite possibly weak in the knees, there's enough sober sense in his mind to deduct that Ian simply wasn't rehabilitated, "I'll get it- stay 'ere." 

"Mickey?" Ian calls out as he's pushed off Mickey's lap and back onto the mattress, leaning back as his stomach aches; maybe it wasn't his best idea, but there wasn’t much of a thought process behind anything he did recently, "Mickey, look- I'm sorry!" 

The bathroom door shuts behind Mickey as he stumbles against the sink and leans foreword, bracing himself on the porcelain as he splashes enough cold water on his face to think clearly. After a minute, it becomes obvious there will never be enough cold water. 

It's obvious from Ian's surrendered yells that he's given into the soreness of his body, and yet Mickey can still feel a shadow of his kiss on each inch of his skin, and his fingers running through his hair and down his back. There isn't enough words to express just how bad their timing was, starting with a near-fatal collision and ending with an adrenaline-fuelled kiss. 

Just as he reaches to push open the door and throw a couple painkillers at Ian, the door opens from the other side and the red-head is standing outside with bright pink cheeks and one arm outstretched above his bandaged head, the other covering his stitches, "Was that too much? I'm sorry, I'm an idiot and I should've, but-" 

"You drive me fuckin' crazy," With a quick motion, Mickey catches the other man off guard as he takes a step foreword, doing so without thinking as he wraps his palm around Ian's neck and pulls the other man into the bathroom, "You're literally standing here, bleeding, with a bandage around your damn skull, and you're still managin' to make me want to-" 

Ian's eyes widen at the hint of what he's been craving, "Make you want too?" 

The image is crushed as Mickey shakes his head and drops his hands, looking anywhere but at Ian to make it less of a challenge as he nods towards the mattress, "You should, uh, probably let those fuckin' heal. I can put another bandage on if-" 

There's a roll of gauze left beside the mattress, and Ian stares at Mickey only a second longer before he mumbles 'I'll get it' and starts back towards where they'd left a mess of tangled sheets and the lingering memory of rushed kisses and eager touches. 

A shake in his knees still hasn't faded, and Mickey finds himself stunned for a moment as he watches Ian limp back towards the bed and collapse into the sheets, and there was a part of him that really hoped he wouldn’t leave. It wasn’t in him to hope for the best, though, and eventually he shrugged, "I'm goin' for smokes- you need anything?"

This time, as Mickey crossed the apartment, Ian's eyes didn’t lift to follow his movements, "Nah, thanks." 

A part of him wants to press on, but instead he looks over and find's that Ian's busy bandaging his own stomach and pushes open the door instead, grabbing his jacket before he responds with a simple, "Alright." 

There's a few drops of blood on the carpet, probably a stain that wouldn't wash out, and Mickey frowns at the realization that he'd see it each and every time he left the apartment. Inside the elevator, there's a 'wet-floor' sign where they'd previously made quite the mess, "Thank fuckin' god for moms." 

It's a cold rain that's falling outside the glass doors, and he finds that he while usually prefers the snow over a constant shower, it seems like the only thing that can bring him back down to reality. Trying to sort through the unanticipated events of the past few days, he eventually remembers that it's Wednesday; there's a practice planned with the band tomorrow, and he'd need to take the bus. The idea of finally letting himself get lost in his own strumming, however, makes him a feel a little lighter. 

It's only a few street corners before Mickey's taking cover from the rain in a tiny convenience store, run by a man who looks as though he hasn’t had a customer all morning. 

"Pack of Pall Mall's?" Mickey limps up to the counter with more strength than he'd carried in his leg the day before, scanning the candy that sits around the register before he grabs a pair of chocolate bars and a bright orange lighter , staring at the lighter for a moment longer than he'd rather admit. 

The man behind the register nods and reads off the price, waiting patiently as Mickey pulls out a few crumpled bills and drops a fistful on the counter. With an eyebrow raised, the man sorts through the cash and hands him back a few quarters. 

"Cheers," Mickey mumbles as he turns away from the counter, ripping the top off the cardboard box before he's even out the door. It's still pouring, so he stands beneath the overhang for a minute or two and lets the cold air wake him up, sucking back on the nicotine like it's his life line. 

It didn’t matter the weather in New York, the city seemed to always be active, and so Mickey leans against the cool brick and watches strangers pass by in a hurried crowd, most with umbrellas but some that simply bared the rain, or even appreciated it. There wasn't foot-traffic like this in the slums of Chicago, and though some strangers eye him with a suspicious or sympathetic stare, he finds a small amount of peace in that he's not rushing anywhere just yet. 

Across the street, Mickey watches from the corner of his eye where a man, a bouquet of wet roses in hand, is sprinting through the rain. Curiosity gets the better of him and he wanders down the street, managing to stay dry under the small amount of roof he can find, and waits as the man bangs on the door of a hidden-away apartment. 

No one answers the door, but Mickey can't help but wonder if having a reason to run through the rain might just be a good thing.


	7. Chapter 7

There isn't much that can cause Mickey to feel guilty, as he's been a self-proclaimed asshole his entire life, so the way his chest sinks with regret makes him fidget with discomfort. The puddle beneath his feet soaks the cigarette he'd given up on, and he crushes it once more with his casted leg on the way back to his apartment. It becomes more obvious with each step that he knows exactly what he wants, and that he's about to allow himself to be hopeful for the first time in a while. 

"Ian," Mickey pushes open his apartment door as if he was pulling back the curtains at the hospital, poutine in one hand as he'd decided moments earlier to stay and wait for the stranger to heal. The intention was still the same, and yet this time Ian wasn't sleeping. The mattress is laying unused on the floor, the sheets folded neatly at the end of the bed; it takes Mickey a second as he scans the apartment anxiously, his gaze eventually landing on Ian, leaning against the kitchen counter, "What're you doing up?" 

"Couldn't sleep, made coffee," Ian's got his bandaged hand hovering over his stomach, but he grins and continues to fight through the ache of the stitches that had come undone, "Figured…wanna watch something?" 

The heaviness in Mickey's chest lifts as soon as Ian flashes a smile, and he knows that a single kiss would be a step over the line, so instead he examines the coffee machine, "You haven't… you didn't press the fuckin' button." 

A contagious smile only grows, surrounded by freckles that Mickey wold count if he ever had the time, "You think I had one of these where I lived? South side of god damn Chicago, Mick-" 

"Did you just say south side?" 

Mickey turns from where he'd been adjusting the coffee machine, his reaction seemingly shocking Ian as he narrows his eyes and nods cautiously.

It only takes three short seconds, and then the image of Ian's face suddenly starts to appear to him over and over; it isn't memories from the past few days, but instead years of passing each other through streets they'd walked down hundreds of times. Once on the L-train and another time behind the counter of a convenience store, the red-head had been there.

"Oh, holy shit," Ian's breaths out in disbelief, steadying himself on the kitchen table, "You're a Milkovich. You… You fuckin' stole about five hundred dollars worth of shit from my store, back in-" 

"Shit, I was so broke-" 

Ian cuts him off with an unexpected laugh, "Turns out, the manager deserved every bit of hell you gave him." 

"How the hell did we end up here?" Mickey asks as they both look back on a time they'd rather not remember too clearly, "Or, who knows- maybe in that damn intersection." 

The question seems to cause Ian to consider his response for a moment, looking over at Mickey as he silently decided whether it was fate or his own good luck. If his life was predetermined, than he'd have to accept that joining and abandoning the military was all part of his story, and yet Mickey felt more like a streak of luck after a long road of setbacks. 

"I'm calling it a miracle," Ian deducts and the other laughs dubiously, "What- you don’t believe in miracles?" 

"Don't believe in God," Mickey answers with a shrug as he pulls a set of mugs from his cupboards, "Gotta see something to make it real." 

"That's fair, but I don’t know…" Ian looks up at the ceiling, trying to put words to the way he feels, "Maybe it's not god or anything dumb like that, but just a beneficial fluke in natures planning?"

"Maybe," Mickey agrees with a nod, pouring the steaming coffee into both mugs, "But even if its just a fuckin' coincidence, it’s good you got out of the slums, you know?" 

"They weren't so bad," Ian comments as Mickey slips a mug into his hands, raising his eyebrow because in his experience, Chicago was just a seemingly endless chain of petty crimes and worthless beatings, "But, I mean, this apartment's nicer than any place I walked into back home, so…" 

With a teasing shove, Mickey nods to the TV and grabs his own drink as he limps from the kitchen, "It ain't from any home magazine, that's for fuckin' sure." 

"Doesn't matter," Ian mumbles as he follows closely behind, slower than Mickey but just as prepared to fall back onto the couch cushions and forget about just how banged up they both are, "It’s better than an army bunk." 

Stories of the months spent at the camp start to pour from where Ian had kept them locked up in the back of his mind, hiding them away so he wouldn’t have to think about how he'd left, scared to spend another night alone on his cot. It was after years of training, his mind set on being a soldier and defending the country, only to find that his heart was telling him otherwise as soon as he'd stepped onto the bus. 

The coffee is soon mixed with shots as they forget about the images on the TV screen, the noise drowned out by the way that Ian's voice gets a little louder when he talks about just how smart his brothers are, and his little home in Chicago. The memories are nearly vivid in Mickey's mind as he thoughtfully watches Ian's lips move, silent as the other man's words get caught in his swollen throat as he recalls a time when he'd dealt with a father that didn’t seem to ever sober and a mom that wouldn't come home. 

'I'm gay', Ian whispers aloud, recalling a confession he'd once made to a girl who'd loved him a long time ago. There was times, he remembers, that he'd wanted to lie in bed for days on end, wishing that heavy weight in his chest would rise. When his energy did come back, he was sometimes scared it was too much, like an overwhelming surge that caused his heart to race faster than his own feet could keep up with. 

There isn't much that Mickey is willing to share as they fall closer together on the sofa; he can't open up about the time he spent hating who he was and the way he felt, because he looked up to a father who didn’t know a thing about love. 

"You got a sister, right?" Ian asks curiously, his voice slurring just a touch as he leans back into the cushion and stretches his legs over Mickey's, "She back at home in Chicago still?" 

"I don't fuckin' care," Mickey lies without thinking twice about it, ignoring the way his chest tightens at the sound of his sister's name; the idea that Terry could be out there, taking out whatever anger he had on a girl that hadn't even reached eighteen, causes his blood to boil, "Let's order a fuckin' pizza, or something, alright?" 

There's nothing he can say that'll help his little sister, so he chooses not to say anything at all. 

The night takes it's toll at around four in the morning, when the sleep that both men have been denying transitions into temporary insanity, and their howling at nearly nothing at all. 

"But- but what about…" Ian can’t stop laughing, barely breathing as tears roll down his cheeks, "those guys with the black and white makeup, and the super long tongues-" 

"We're not Kiss!" Mickey argues, but he can't hold back a laugh as he defends his band, "We're like, fucking, I don’t know- Guns N' Roses." 

Ian considers his response a moment before breaking out into song, using the remote as a makeshift microphone as he seems to channel his hidden rock star. It's ridiculous to watch and Mickey finds himself buckling with laughter, singing along as they share the couch like a stage. 

"Oh, oh, sweet child of mine!" Ian belts out, sharing a smile with Mickey as they badly harmonize the chorus one last time. 

As they sink back into their seats, their shoulders meet and their leaning against one another and listening to the sounds of heavy breathing. The silence is broken when Ian looks over and blurts out, "I bet you look good on stage."

Mickey snorts and sips back lukewarm coffee, "Next show- you're seat's upfront, alright?" 

"They gunna roll you around in a wheelchair while you play?" Ian teases with a wink, earning a playful glare shot in his direction before he concedes, "Kidding- you're getting pretty good limping around on that hunk of shit." 

"It's driving me fuckin' crazy," He confesses as he slams the clay-wrapped leg on his table once with a thud. The casts around Ian's ankle and wrist are heavier than the splint on his right hand, and Mickey guesses that it'll come off easier than the paper machete wrapped around both their limbs, "Whatever, I'll get it off in a couple weeks. Yours, too." 

"Yeah?" Ian peers down at his beat-up body, which he'd been managing to drag around despite the injuries, and continues to play Mickey's words over once more in his mind, "You mean…" 

The silence is simply waiting to be filled by the offer to stay another month or two, and yet Mickey can't seem to blurt out the question. When it becomes apparent that Ian's assumed the worst, he reaches for his own drink and slugs back enough to bring him from tipsy to drunk. 

Even the traffic outside has quieted at this point in the late night, and Mickey nods to the open window after a minute or two of staring thoughtlessly at the television, "Cigarette?" 

"Why not," Ian agrees and looks around the living room, spotting the beanie he'd worn the night before and slipping it over his bandages. 

It's that simple action that causes Mickey to drop his smoke and lighter on the window ledge, watching with admiration and a broken heart as he watches the red-head tighten the hat over his buzzed hair. 

"Stay." 

Ian's eyes widen at the vaguely worded invitation, "Tonight?"

Mickey shakes his head as if it's obvious, "Not just tonight, but you know… for, like, a fuckin' while. I'm the one who did this to ya, didn't I?" 

"Okay," Ian agrees, a small smile creeping across his face as he meets Mickey at the window, the cool breeze doing nothing to dampen the heat rising over his skin. They're eyes don’t seem to stray from each other as he slips the smoke between his lips and nods for the other man to light the end. 

The television continues to play, but the noise can't keep either man awake and if they argue about who's going to sleep on the mattress, it doesn't matter in the end because they both fall asleep on the sofa. Casted limbs wrap around each other as they share the small space, and Ian snores so loud that it's a surprise Mickey manages to ignore it; he'd never admit that he slept better with a warmth like Ian's pressing up against his side, keeping him company in the early hours of the mornings he'd usually have spent alone.


	8. Chapter 8

No one ever knocked at the Gallagher's home, they all simply let themselves in, and it wasn't like the locks worked anyways. When Ian's brought from a dreamy haze, the tap on Mickey's apartment door startles him and for a millisecond, it's the sound of military boots scraping against mud-covered cement. 

"Mick?" Ian mumbles tiredly as the rapping on the door continues, rolling on his side to find that Mickey didn’t have a problem sleeping through bullshit; south side tended to have that affect on people, "There's someone here, were you expecting a package or something?" 

The responding answer is caught between 'no' and a snore, and so he lets loose a morning-yawn, stretching his arms above his head as his spine cracks with each bend. Staring back down thoughtlessly before he pushes himself up from the couch, Ian can't ignore the contentment of waking up to the sight of Mickey's parted lips and messy hair. 

Another loud knock limits his patience, "Coming! Jesus Christ, it's like ten in the morning." 

The peephole doesn't interest Ian enough to peek through it before yanking the door open, groaning as he did so because his casts didn’t do anything to prevent the strain in his limbs. Considering that he'd expected an elderly woman in a post-office suit or something along those lines, Ian's caught off guard and nearly speechless by the appearance of the handsome stranger, "Uh- hey." 

"Hey," The man is tall and slender, his chest broad and covered with tattoos reaching across his collarbones and down his arms. A guitar falls over his back, held by a strap hung over the strangers shoulders, and there's something deep and sultry in his voice that leads Ian to assume he's a singer, "Is…Is Mickey here?" 

Asleep on the couch behind him, Ian steps to the side slowly and gestures to where he's passed out, cautious about the man no longer standing on the other side of the door frame. 

"Oh, shit," The stranger lowers his voice to a whisper but continues to follow Ian further into the apartment, leaving the door ajar as he slips the guitar off his back and leans it against the wall, "Didn't realize he'd be asleep but hey, I'm Adam. You look pretty beat up, too- were you with him, in the car accident? He didn't mention-" 

Like a deer caught in headlights, he can feel his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment but he can't seem to move his feet in any which direction. As if being struck by a sudden revelation, Ian's stomach drops as he finally realizes why Mickey hadn't talked about his past, and why he'd been so hesitant about the kiss. 

"Uh, yeah- I'm his, um, guitar student?" Ian lies, but who he assumes is Mickey's boyfriend seems to have no problem believing it and nods casually in his direction. 

"Glad you both didn't bite it," Adam laughs, not seeming to notice the way that Ian's hands shake as he scoops up an outfit and stuffs it roughly into a grocery bag, "So, why're you here- if Mickey doesn’t have a guitar?" 

The question stumps him for a moment and Ian wonders to himself for a short moment, if he even wants to protect Adam from hearing the gruesome details, "Forgot my shit. Hey, could you tell him… Fuck it." 

It's quiet as Adam watches with a concerned stare while Ian limps towards the door, eventually shutting it behind him with a bang loud enough to not only wake up the sleeping man in the room but everyone on that floor of the apartment. The commotion distracts the guest, oblivious to the way that Mickey sits up with wide eyes and peers around nervously for Ian, his confusion only thickening as his eyes land on Adam instead. 

There's no kindness in Mickey's blurted reaction as he pushes himself out from under the sofa's throw and raises his arms in bewilderment, "Dude, what the fuck?" 

"I- I brought the acoustic, I thought we could fuckin' jam or something before practice," Adam stutters a bit as he tries to defend himself, seemingly caught off guard by the shortness and frustration of his band member, "Was that kid…was he really your guitar student?" 

It doesn’t take much critical thinking before Mickey realizes that Ian is the mysterious student Adam is referring too, and wonders with slight concern why he hadn't just introduced himself and started a damn pot of coffee. The cast around his ankle makes it impossible for the injured red-head to slip on a pair of boots, and Mickey fights his urge to sprint towards the door as worry settles in the pit of his stomach. 

After a moment of silence, Mickey decides the truth just isn't worth explaining, "Yeah, guess so. Listen, it's pretty fuckin' early, so-" 

"I won't stay," Adam picks up the guitar and invites himself into the living room, sitting on the opposite end of the couch as Mickey glares at him through tired eyes, "Just, watch." 

Adam's fingers pick the guitar as if he grew up learning how to do only that, quickly moving across the neck of the guitar as he tested each string, "So, this is how an acoustic, tuned, should sound. But, if you tune it like this-" 

With a grace that Mickey considered himself lacking in, Adam pinched each machine head, only focusing on it's tune for a moment before switching to the next. The strings begin to sound differently as he slides his fingers up the fret board, playing a few basic chords in a completely different pitch. 

Mickey finishes his explanation as Adam plays the last note, "It sounds more like an electric. That's really fuckin' something, man." 

It's early and his arms are tired and sore, but Adam's sliding the guitar onto his lap and there's no part of him that wants to decline. The guitar frame is bigger than his last, but he drops his wrist below the frets and uses his right hand to strum, closing his eyes as a rock song becomes something more of a hard-core lullaby- it didn't sound awful. 

The music is intoxicating, flowing through his veins as if it could give him more energy than drugs or caffeine or sleep ever could, but when Mickey looks up to find a wide smile across Adams face, it isn't surrounded by freckles or complimented by a pair of bright green eyes; the guitar suddenly feels too heavy in his lap, and Mickey sets it down on the couch. 

Adam reaches up to pat him on the back, "With a little more practice, I think you could be the next Neil Young."

"Who?"

It's the impatience behind Mickey's tone that causes Adam's eyes to narrow, watching as the other man begins to pace ever so slightly across the apartment's floor, "Listen, man- are you okay? You're cast is pretty much ruining the hardwood." 

Ignoring Adam's attempt at a joke, Mickey runs his fingers through his overgrown hair and tries to breath, "I, uh- I don’t feel so fuckin' good." 

The responding look on Adam's expression seems unexplainably sneaky until he roots through his bag for a moment and pulls out a joint, rolled thickly and tight like the ones Mickey used too put together back at home. It was tempting to forget about the stress of Ian's disappearance and sit back on the sofa, inhale and make everything simple for an hour or two. 

"It's good shit," Adam assures him as he waves it in the air, grabbing a lighter off the cluttered coffee table and returning it to his lips, "You look like you could use a puff, sit the fuck down." 

Like they'd suddenly grown a mind of their own, Mickey swears he's commanding his feet to walk towards the couch and yet the door is nearing his immediate vision. 

"You serious?" Adam calls from the couch, a smoke cloud escaping as he continues, "I can put it out-" 

The door is opening and Mickey can't seem to stop, his shoes already on as he looks back quickly one last time, brushing off Adam's rejected expression, "Fuck it, smoke it- I'll be at practice later, alright?" 

"You want to-" 

Whatever he'd been suggesting is silenced as the door shuts, and Mickey doesn’t bother looking back as he limps down the hallway and out into the streets, and without warning he's sprinting through the rain. 

Hours pass and Mickey won't turn back, he can't because if ever left alone, he'll have to face the facts; Mickey is soaked to the bone, shivering and starving, and the reason was because he felt something for Ian that he wasn't able to lose yet. The thought terrifies him, and yet he searches block after block, shoving his way through crowds and calling out Ian's name. 

The clothes he wears stick to his skin and all that Mickey can think about it just how little he'd cared in the past, and how much he could lose in this exact moment. People had never mattered to him, because they were disposable, just tools in a series of crimes or a way to relieve some stress after a bad couple days. Everything happened quick, and his encounters were rough and aggressive; he'd never ask for favors, and only offered his own assistance when there was something in it for him. There was never a reason for hope or for grief, because it just wasn't important. 

If there'd ever been something that Mickey might classify as important, it's the same reason he's lost in New York City, dressed in what he'd worn to sleep and carrying no more than fifty dollars and a cellphone that can't call the only person he wants to talk too. 

There's too many places to search through and Mickey's overwhelmed as he enters yet another bar that disappoints him. It's becoming more impossible by the minute, New York being a maze of buildings and Ian could've limped into any one of them. 

The leg that Mickey was forced to drag around all day is starting to ache above the cast, and his soaked clothes are starting to feel just as heavy as a set of armour might be. When his phone finally rings, a very hopeful part of Mickey desperately wants to believe that Ian had simply gone back to the apartment and found his number taped to the fridge. 

"Ian, is that-" 

Adam coughs on the other end of the line, "Is Ian your guitar student?"  
The sun is setting and Mickey can tell by the hostility behind Adam's question that he's already missed band practice, and yet the thought hadn't even crossed his mind until now. It was occupied by thoughts of Ian, a chaotic mess of where he could've gone or what he could be doing without shoes or a proper jacket, food or money. 

"Shit," Mickey replies, stopping to find shelter under a balcony, "Listen, I'm fuckin' lost." 

"What, like, in life?" Adam asks with cautiously drawn out words, sounding concerned that their conversation was preparing to become very philosophical. 

"No, I'm literally fucking lost. I started down third, and then-" Mickey peers out from beneath where he's found cover from the downpour, and the first thing his eyes land upon is a building taller than anything he'd seen in Chicago, "Holy shit, I'm at the god damn Empire State Building." 

It's a moment of silence before Adam decides to let the ditched rehearsal go and sighs, "Stay there, alright? I'll be there in twenty minutes." 

If he didn’t feel as though his body was reaching the brink of exhaustion, Mickey might've argued and said that he'd rather find his own way home, but his stomach had been in a knot for hours now and he wasn't getting any closer to finding Ian. 

There's never anywhere to park, and while he'd only been in the city for a short time, he'd figured that rule out on day one. As Adam's car pulls up into the intersection, stopping at the red light, Mickey pushes himself up from where he'd planted his ass on the wet cement and dodges the first few lanes of cars, praying that he makes it to the car's door before the light switches. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," Adam blurts out as Mickey climbs into the passenger side seat, not bothering to attempt and keep the car dry; he was too far gone. His concern is mixed with amusement, "Did ya have a good shower, or what?" 

"Shut it," Mickey snaps back, earning nothing but a laugh from Adam as the light switches to green and they begin to pull forwards, "You didn't have to drive over here."

34th Street is crowded and jammed with traffic, and they both lean back and prepare for a few minutes of waiting, "I was actually pretty fuckin' worried- you passed up a good fuckin' joint to take off at ten in the morning, left me at your place and went AWOL on the band." 

"You guys get through the list?" Mickey asks apologetically, his eyes searching out the window for casts and a bandaged head. 

"Sure, but it doesn’t sound as good when it's only three of us," He replies in a matter-of-fact way, shrugging as he makes a right onto ninth, "This guy, Ian- did you go looking for him, or something? I don't want to assume, but you sounded pretty fuckin' excited when you thought I might've been him." 

Mickey doesn't want to answer, because doing so would be admitting that hearing Ian's voice would mean the world to him in this very moment, and that if he wasn't so tired, he'd still be out on the sidewalks. 

Just as he's about to make up an excuse, a set of flashing blue and red lights catch his attention, and he looks past the traffic to find a pair of cop cars parked discretely at an entrance into Central Park.

"Pull over," Mickey nods towards the park, looking over to find Adam staring back at him as though he'd grown a second head, "Just fuckin' do it, alright? You can drop me off here." 

"I'm not gunna fuckin' leave you here," Adam argues as he veers to the right, looking over his shoulder at the cop car as Mickey pushes open the side door, "Where the fuck are you going?" 

If he would've sat down and explained it might've taken more time than he could spare, and Adam groans as the door shuts without response for the second time that day. 

There's two men, dressed in vests with guns strapped to their waists, holding out flashlights as the sun had set minutes ago; Mickey tries to act casual as he pulls out his cellphone and begins a fake conversation with himself, but his casted leg is a dead give away and so he quickly finds a broken bush, tearing through the branches before making his way in without walking through the cops range of vision. 

Central Park is yet another maze and Mickey crosses his fingers in hopes that the police aren't in the area to investigate some sort of dangerous suspect, because although it was out of character, he'd armed himself with nothing but his own house keys before he'd stormed out of the apartment. 

Rows of benches line the main path and each is occupied by a new set of strangers, and as he stares down each person as though they might be his target, the suspecting looks he receives in return should be an obvious reaction. 

It's five minutes later when he assumes he's looking at a homeless man, but a casted ankle peeking out from beneath a blanket draped over the body causes Mickey's heart to race and he doesn't wait a second before he darts towards the bench. 

"Are you fuckin' alright?" Mickey leans down, shaking his shoulder in an attempt to pull him from a restless sleep; Ian looks drained as he begins to open his eyes, his cheeks hollow and his skin more pale than usual, and the blanket draped over him looks as if it'd been stolen from a thrift shop, "Listen, there's cops- you've been limping around all fuckin' day, someone probably saw you."

It takes a moment before Ian's foggy memory sets back into place, and then suddenly he's reaching for Mickey as though he's a life line, "Cops?" 

"Yeah, cops," Mickey replies, his frustration arising from a sense of doubt that Ian was truly okay. They lean against each other once again, ignoring the stares as they push towards a path that they both hope will take them away from the public eye, "Why the hell did you take off this morning, Ian? What were you thinking?" 

"I was thinking," Ian stops walking as they turn into shadows under the shade of a large, leafy tree, his expression growing serious as he lets Mickey's arm fall back to his side, "What the fuck was I doing, assumin' a guy like you wouldn't have someone comin' home to him." 

Mickey could almost laugh, but instead he steps closer to Ian because he's leaning as though he might fall, "The last time someone 'came home to me,' I was five and we called her mom."  
The confession seems to struck Ian speechless for a moment, "So, Adam-" 

"No," Mickey interrupts, nodding towards where the park met the road, and across the street shined the sign of a cheap motel that was both convenient and possibly their only option left, "He's not." 

There's a small smile on Ian's face, but Mickey's busy keeping his eyes peeled for a police officer as they push through a wall of bushes, and the crowded sidewalks cause both the men to stop and wait for any sign of authority. The cops had parked on the west end and they rest for a moment as traffic stops once again. 

"Fuck it?" Mickey asks Ian as they start towards the traffic jam, and the red-head nods once before they step onto the street. 

It's only minutes before they reach the motel, and Mickey drops a fifty on the counter as they walk up to the uninterested desk clerk, "One bed." 

The woman eyes Mickey just the same as Ian does, eventually reaching for a key on the wall and replacing it with the cash, "Room twenty-four." 

"Cheers," Mickey mutters, and as they head back towards the hallway, the daunting blue and red lights flash outside the window, "Let's go." 

The sight causes Ian to move as fast as he possibly can, and when they eventually stumble across the room number, it's both dirty and old, and yet it's a indescribable relief.

"Why'd you even come lookin' for me?" Ian mutters as he begins to peel off his wet t-shirt, revealing his lean yet muscled chest, "I didn’t ask for shit." 

The thin material gets caught on Ian's cast and Mickey steps closer to lift it from his arms, wanting to blurt out the hundred reasons why he'd ran after him but finding it impossible to say the words aloud, "What was fuckin' your plan, anyways- die on that damn bench?" 

"I was fine," Ian lies through clenched teeth as he sits back on the squeaky mattress, tugging the soaked sweatpants over his casted ankle and leaving tem in a heap on the carpet, "I don't need you to take care of me." 

The laugh that Mickey responds with is heavy with sarcasm, "Yeah, right." 

His unappreciated amusement only seems to heat Ian's temper as he swings his feet over the bed, as if preparing to leave once again, "You think I fuckin' need you?" 

"No," Mickey answers immediately, his expression transitioning into something much more genuine, "No, I-" 

I'm the one who needs you. 

The words don’t ever leave his lips, caught behind a wall of pride, but Ian knows. 

There's rain hitting the glass window, and thunder booms loudly outside; Mickey's more than aware that Adam is waiting and watching the park for a pair of injured men to come limping from the bushes, but he can't find it in himself to care.

Words don't come easy to Mickey, and so instead he leans forward and kisses Ian, soft at first and soon rougher as the other leans into it and weaves his fingers through Mickey's hair, desperate to pull him closer.

As if the thought hadn't crossed his mind until this moment, Ian pushes the other man back as he stands up from the bed, his palms flat on Mickey's chest, "You don't want this- I'll do something stupid. I always do- it's just a matter of time."

Mickey presses against his hold, threatening to cause them to fall back onto the mattress, "You wanna write a fuckin' list of stupid shit you've done, maybe compare notes? Cause mine's gunna be longer."

"No, you don't get it," Ian's frustration grows as his urges do, and instead of tugging Mickey closer, he shoves him back towards the wall, knocking a motel painting from the nail it'd hung on, "I'm just- I don't know what it is, I'm just messed up. Let me disappear, go home-"

Ian's stepping closer with each word he yells, and Mickey looks out of character as he leans back into the wall and stares up at the red-head with wide eyes and slight intimidation, watching attentively as he continues, "You really want this?"

There's a knot in Mickey's throat, and so he nods quietly instead.

It's almost aggravatingly slow; Mickey can't seem to breath as Ian's aggression fades into a gentle touch, taking his time while he lifts the shirt from Mickey's damp skin.

Mickey had never bothered with his own body, but Ian's eyes are hungrily travelling over every square inch of his skin like he was something beautiful; the way the Milkovich had first looked at him. Leaning in as though they're about to share a kiss, Ian ducks to Mickey's right, leaving the other man with lips half open in expectation. A tongue quickly finds his shoulder bone, and Ian teases and sucks the softest spots along his neck, waiting until he can hear the hint of a desperate moan to move on.

It isn't in Mickey's best interest to fight back as Ian grabs ahold of his hips and spins him around, folding him over the kitchen counter and facing him towards the tiled wall.

"God, Ian," Mickey groans as the other man presses up grinds up against him, dragging his nails across the skin so recently exposed.

Once again, Ian seems to favour taking things slow, and the air behind him is assumed empty as all fingers are taken off Mickey's bent over body.

Only a moment later, Ian's kneeling down behind him, pulling his boxers down an inch a minute.

If his aim is to torment, Mickey decides he knows exactly what he's doing, because Ian's fingers barely wrap around him for a moment just to fall away a second later.

Finally, the material that had been keeping him covered falls to the motel kitchen floor.

It's then that the cop sirens travel down the parking lot, causing both men to freeze and wait as the lights park outside the room.

"The cops," Mickey chokes out, sounding as though he can't catch his breath, "Maybe we-"

"Fuck them," Ian mutters playfully from behind, pushing down on the small of Mickey's back with his free hand, a rush of excitement travelling through his body as the other man moans and grinds back against his hard-on, flat against the counter top.

A moment later, every small grunt that he drags from the other man's lips is acting as his encouragement.

"They're still outside," Mickey breathes out as Ian sits back on his heels for a moment, but he doesn't seem to be worried about the lights flashing on the other side of the flowing curtains.

"Ignore it," Ian counters, standing up behind him and reaching over his shoulders, covering Mickey's hands with his own, "I want you right here, alright?"

It's not as if Mickey would say no, no matter where they were. The pressure changes before he can argue, speeding up as he leans over and sucks hickeys into the other man's skin, pressing deeper into Mickey and holding him against the cold surface as he hopelessly fidgets under Ian's hold. 

"Too much?" Ian whispers =and ventures further than he'd tested, groaning as Mickey desperately rolls his hips in an attempt to encourage Ian to do more. There isn't enough of Ian's body against Mickey's and he wants more, only he can't move from the counter and take control, so instead he nearly growls, "God, please Ian- more."

Ian can't hide a devilish grin, and Mickey's socked feet just barely touch the ground now; he stands directly behind him and wraps one hand around his hips, and the other he uses to push open Mickey one more time. The groan that he can't control is louder than either man expects, and Ian matches it just as instantaneously as he sinks further forward and falls against the other man's back.

With nails digging into Mickey's sides, Ian just barely pauses before slamming back into him, the drawers on the counters shaking loudly as Mickey shouts out with a mix of pleasure and satisfied pain.

"Fuck, again," Mickey cries out, his fingers curling under Ian's palms, "Ian, harder."

There's a moment where Ian tortures his patience, teasing as he reaches around and strokes Mickey until he's completely out of breath, aching to brace himself on the corner of the counter and ride Ian instead. It's a moment before Mickey's about to turn around and take lead that Ian slams against him once more, lifting his feet completely from the floor as he pushes his hips further up onto the surface.

A rhythm only forms for a few minutes, Mickey desperately grabbing ahold of anything he can find, neither caring that there was no longer a shared gentleness as Ian digs his nails into the soft skin of his rounded ass, muttering inaudible words as they lose themselves in eachother's bodies.

The dampness from the rain is soon replaced with beads of sweat, dropping down each man's backs as they both reach their limit; it isn't until Ian can't keep a steady rhythm that Mickey begins to lose all ability to keep himself together.

"Ian- I'm going to-"

The confession rouses Ian's pleasure and he sets his palms flat on the counter, one on either side of Mickey's body, driving into him harder and deeper with each abrupt and electrifying thrust, waiting until the moment the other man can't handle it anymore.

"Fuck!" Mickey cries out and instinctively pushes himself back up, his trembling body leaning back into Ian's chest as the red head steadies himself on the edge of the counter.

They both fall back against the counter a moment later, exhausted and skin covered in each other's sweat and stick but neither finding the bother in it.

"You're a fuckin'..." Mickey can't find the words to describe just how Ian manages to make him feel, his fingers shaking along with his knees.

Ian sighs as if he's about to hear bad news.

"A bad ass," Mickey grins, flipping around to face Ian, "Yeah- you know, I think you woulda scared me a little back at south side. It's fuckin' sexy, Gallagher."

Ian didn't know whether he was ballsy or just insane, but none the less, the way that Mickey is smiling like the idea of a round two is already floating around his mind causes him to forget the confliction, "Yeah? You want me to go tell those cops to give us some privacy- that's bad ass, right?"

"Oh, fuck," Mickey almost laughs, having forgotten about the risk at hand, "Let's sneak out the back."

"Wait," Ian mumbles as Mickey pushes himself from the counter and begins to hunt for his clothes, "are you sure you want-"

"Fuck, Ian," Mickey actually seems a little annoyed, his voice rising with frustration, "I want this, so forget about all that other shit for now- we'll figure it out eventually, okay?"

There's no mistaking that Mickey's blunt statement comes from an honest place, and Ian nods once before following his lead. Because the risks aren't any less threatening now so, Ian can't help himself, and before they start out the fire exit, he wraps his fingers around Mickey's wrist and tugs him towards himself, planting yet another reassuring kiss on his worn lips.

Mickey's eyes are wide with the spontaneity of Ian's action, but the shock fades into a small smile, "Alright, Gallagher."

"Get the fuck out there," Ian laughs, and soon they're making their way to the corner of the street, thumbs out and praying for a cab before a cop.


	9. Chapter 9

Happiness has always been a black and white matter to Mickey Milkovich; a good meal, a well-needed nap, playing through a set list without a single mistake. Now, sitting beside Ian Gallagher on his caved-in sofa seats, each holding a controller as they bump shoulders and yell at the television screen, he isn't so sure anymore.

Until now, being happy has never meant worrying about someone, sharing his stress with another person who happens to be causing it as well. It isn't Ian's fault that his bliss is beaten down with concern, and yet Mickey can't help but gaze over at his bandaged head every so often and wonder what it might lead to. 

"That's me you're attacking, dumb ass!" Ian laughs whole-heartedly and playfully shoves Mickey's hands, causing him to drop the controller for a few moments, "Watch the screen!" 

Mickey tears his eyes away from the cuts and bruises on Ian's freckled face, noticing that they've started to heal and that his cheeks are pink instead of pale. Attempting to bring his mind back to a simpler place, he spends a short minute trying to reclaim his place on the virtual battleground. It doesn't take long before he's back in the game, smashing the 'x' button as they work together to defeat a fake army. 

"Just one more," Ian mumbles on his breath, focusing intently on finding the last survivor as they scoot closer together, "C'mon, we got- hey, what's that?" 

Mickey groans as Ian abandons his controller, not only walking in front of the TV screen but also forgetting to pause the game, leaving them both open to attack as his attention is caught elsewhere, "Hey- get back here!" 

"Wait," Ian quickly crosses the living room and curiously picks up a souvenir that Adam had left behind, "You wanna?" 

Because Adam hasn't called since two night's before, having given up after he'd waited on the streets of New York while Mickey and Ian caught a cab and escaped the scene without his help, Mickey assumes he won't be back for the forgotten joint.

Shrugging, he reaches into his back pocket for a lighter and tosses it across the room. Like he'd done it many times before, Ian lets the joint dangle between his lips for a moment as he lifts the lighter to the paper, smiling just barely at Mickey as the flame catches. 

It's an awfully scary feeling, Mickey thinks to himself as he appreciates the view, to care for someone like he suddenly feels for Ian. The red-head shifts his weight as he inhales, seemingly relaxing by the second; it'd probably been a while since he'd felt a high that didn't arise from pure adrenaline. 

Walking on a casted ankle becomes easier with practice, and Ian simply lifts his leg with each step, falling back into the cushions as he generously offers the smoke to Mickey. 

"Haven’t smoked since I was in Southside," Ian comments as Mickey inhales for a while longer than usual, letting the smoke swirl, "I don't miss it, you know?" 

"How the fuck could you?" Mickey agrees, shaking his head at the idea of ever returning without a dire need to do so, "Place had nothin' for us." 

"You think New York does?" Ian asks thoughtfully as his fingers brush against Mickeys, no longer finding it surprising when they share a touch or a meaningful stare, "I mean, what should we do?" 

With a laugh, Mickey passes him the joint before turning, "That's a pretty vague fuckin' question, Ian." 

"Well- I can't imagine that your band is impressed with you; I'll help with rent, but I mean, who want's to hire a cripple?" Ian gestures to himself, sighing; Mickey doesn't care that he can't pitch in, it's enough that he'd even offered and the smile across his face isn't easy to hide. 

A few seconds pass as Mickey contemplates just how he's supposed to respond to a question that he doesn't know the answer too, and Ian seems to realize that rent wasn't a problem on the other man's mind until now. 

"Noticed that guy left his guitar," Ian nods to the corner of the room, shrugging as he continues, "You could apply for some solo gigs, if you think you could pull off that singer-songwriter vibe. Sing something for me, and I'll let you know how much I'd tip." 

"I don’t sing, I play," Mickey counters in a gruff tone, unable to admit that he'd only sing when the house was empty and his mood was sentimental. 

Ian rolls his eyes, getting up as he inhales and quickly passes the roll back to Mickey, grabbing the guitar without Mickey's permission, "C'mon, play me something." 

Mickey can't argue as Ian drops the instrument in his hands, sitting back on the coffee table and watching as if the other man were about to put on a one-man show. 

"Don't you dare fuckin-" 

Ian shakes his head immediately, "I wouldn't laugh at you." 

The guitar feels natural as soon as Mickey positions his fingers on the loosened strings, once again familiarizing himself with an acoustic. It doesn’t take long before he forgets his pride and closes his eyes, strumming a few chords in a volume much lower than his electric. 

"If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you," Mickey's voice is nothing close to rhythmic, only barely louder than the notes he plays, shying away from his full extent as he mumbles the words to a song he'd learned years before, "When mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you an' me." 

There's a gasp from Ian's lips that causes Mickey to open his eyes, looking up to find the red-head wide eyed and covering his mouth with his palms, as if he'd done something impressive. 

"Kind man," Mickey's voice grows louder and more confident as they share a stare, finding that he finally relates to the lyrics of one of his favorite Led Zeppelin songs, "I give you my all." 

Ian's face blushes with appreciation, his pale skin a cherry red and his gaze never leaving Mickey, travelling from his quickly moving fingers to his lips and pale blue eyes.

"Kind man, nothing more," Mickey sings as his hands shift on the neck of the guitar, his breath catching as he readies himself to continue, "And so today, my world it smiles-" 

Ian can't help himself from interrupting, "Mickey- you're amazing, you're- you underestimate yourself more than anyone I've ever met, you don't even need a band. You're a show, really." 

The guitar falls silent as Mickey's cheeks grow to a similar shade as Ian's, "Nah, shut the fuck up- It's nothin'." 

"No, seriously," Ian argues, his palms falling on Mickey's knees as he leans foreword with enthusiasm as if to accentuate his point, "You don't- I'll help, okay? We'll do this together- life, or what the fuck ever." 

The new found worry regarding his rent money fades as Ian's honest stare reassures Mickey, no doubt in his mind that they'd be in it for the long run, "Yeah, alright." 

As if Ian is trying to speak, his words come out with confidence but Mickey can't understand a thing, steadying the other man as he abandons the instrument on the cushions, "Hey- you're slurring, are you okay?" 

"'M fie," Ian responds tiredly, his eyelids drooping, "'M head…ow." 

"You're head?" Mickey asks, his voice heavy with worry as he holds Ian up with a steady grip, "Ian- stay with me, what's going on?" 

"Whe- where 'er we?" Ian looks around the room as if it’s the first time he's ever seen it, like he hadn't been staring up at the same ceiling for three nights now, "Who-" 

"We're at my fuckin' place, where are you right now Ian?" Mickey's panicking now, watching as Ian's expression becomes twisted with confusion and fear, "Hey, hey- Should I call a fuckin' ambulance?" 

"No!" Ian cries, as if the only thing he can remember is that he shouldn't be in a place where anyone could identify him as a runaway soldier, or possibly tell Mickey what the hell was going on, "I need-" 

"What?" He demands desperately as Ian's eyes slip close, nervously shaking his shoulders in an attempt to have him finish his request, "Ian, what do you need?" 

It's now that Mickey feels his chest drop into his stomach, and all the control he'd thought he'd have over the situation is quickly shattered with the drop of Ian's body, rigid as he falls towards the floor.

The sight is one that makes Mickey's heart race with terror, and for a moment he assumes that Ian's suffocating, but there's nothing that could've caused it. It doesn't take more than a second or two before his unconsciousness shifts into thrashing, and before he can catch his own breath, Ian's legs are writhing along with his hands which clench and relax more times than he can count. It's all he can do not to collapse beside him, and beg him to wake up and be okay.

It's with only one shred of hope that Mickey's trembling fingers reach into his pocket, yanking out his cellphone and dialing a number he'd been afraid to call for a while now.

"What?" Mandy answers casually, as if she'd been expecting someone else. 

When Mickey's shaking voice responds, she immediately assumes there's been a problem. 

"I- I-" 

"Mickey, is that you? Hey, spit it the fuck out- what the hell's going on?" 

Watching helplessly as Ian's entire body continues to convulse, Mickey's eyes well with tears, hopeless as he has no idea what to do, "I've got someone- he's having a seizure, and I remember, you liked-" 

"Health class, yeah," Mandy finishes his panicked sentence, managing to stay calm despite the heavy gasps and a choked cry on the other end of the line, "Listen Mick, it's okay- uh, turn who ever it is on their side, alright? They'll fuckin' choke if you don't." 

Though Mandy can't see it, Mickey nods weakly and kneels down, using a firm grip to roll Ian on his side as comfortably as he can. It's just as he's about to wrap his arms around Ian that his little sister adds, "Don't hold him down, though!" 

Taking a step back, Mickey realizes that his whole body shaking, but not nearly as much as Ian, who wasn't able to control his actions in the slightest, "Now what?" 

It only worsens his restless need to help the situation as Mandy struggles to remember a list of 'what-to-do's' that she'd learned back in health class, sounding both nervous and unsure as she continues, "Count the minutes- you've gotta call the doctor if it's longer than two."

"Can't," Mickey admits with a sharp tongue, staring down as Ian's eyes flicked back lifelessly and wishing that it'd just stop so he could reach down and make sure that he was okay. It took him a moment to turn away and continue, "No doctors, he's…Fuck, Mands, he's on the run." 

"Who the fuck are we talking about? Mickey- where are you? I haven't seen you since-" Mandy stops herself mid-sentence, deciding that this probably wasn't a good time to discuss forgotten-about family matters, "Doesn't matter. Listen, when he comes out of it, he'll probably be really tired and maybe a little confused, if he wasn't before. What's the problem, here- flashing lights, maybe high blood pressure?" 

It's all he can do to hold back a stifled cry, clearing his throat and knowing that what he was about to admit wouldn't earn the answer he was hoping for, "Fuckin' head trauma- had a hemorrhage." 

The responding silence is somehow worse than anything else, almost deafening as he realizes that there is no words of comfort left. It was mainly up to fate, chance, and good luck now. 

"You should probably bring him to the hospital, even if he's…you know, he might die if you leave this alone…" Mandy speaks quieter than before, searching for words that can never be said right; the panicked call had been unexpected, and she didn't know the details, but there was a sadness to her brothers tone that she'd rarely heard and it wasn't easily shaken. 

It's because he's forced to relate Ian to the word 'die' that causes Mickey's knees to buckle beneath him, and he falls closely beside Ian and hopelessly prays to a god he's never believed in that his seizure would just stop. 

"You there?" A voice he'd momentarily forgotten about startles Mickey after a second or two of radio silence, "You…you okay?" 

"'M fine," He mutters into the phone's speaker, fingers too unsteady to hold the device for much longer, "Gotta go, I'll call back."

It's not for another aggravatingly longer four minutes that Ian's body finally relaxes, his spine uncurling and his balled fists falling back into open palms; Mickey had lied restlessly beside him until it had ended, even if he'd kept his eyes closed to avoid the torturous thoughts of what might happen after he woke up, or if he wouldn’t at all. 

"Ian," Mickey lays an unsteady hand on his shoulder, but the red-head's eyes don't open from the shake; however, a rising chest is enough to calm his concern, and so he swipes a pillow from the couch and slides it under Ian's head. It's more relief than he thought possible to watch his steady breathing, although it didn't help that he wasn't sure what it'd be like when Ian woke up; maybe not knowing was best for right this moment, as Mickey struggled to simply pull himself up to his wobbling feet. 

There isn't much to keep his mind off the problem at hand, and so he pours himself a coffee and hastily presses redial. 

It's been months since him and Mandy have actually talked, and so finally, they do. It turns out that he isn't the only wayward Milkovich, learning eventually that his little sister had also run away from the slums, renting a flat with another waitress who lived off the tips; Mickey finds that he's just glad she's far away from Terry, the father they'd both left behind in a house as empty as the drinks he surely continued to drown himself in. 

What he thinks as an unusual series of fuck-up's and bad choices, his little sister considers it an interesting and gasp-worthy story. There's a softness to his voice that he never normally uses, but only when he begins to describe Ian does Mandy hear it; 'You know, he's a little fuckin' rocket. Got all this fiery red hair, always excited about somethin'.' 

It doesn't take long until she asks the question he's been ruining his own sanity with, "You, uh- You really like this guy, eh?" 

Mickey snorts humourlessly, deflecting as he begins to pour a shot of baileys into his mug; there isn't enough to fix their problems, but it can't hurt, "Fuck off. It's not like that. Shit, I told you, I hit him with my car." 

"Yeah, well," Mandy sighs, "I hope he's okay." 

Mickey frowns as his eyes drift past the kitchen frame, to where Ian's curled up on the rug, "Me too." 

-

The night feels as though it drags on for years, as Mickey lights one smoke after the other and contemplates whether or not the hospital is becoming inevitable in Ian's case. A doctor would know what was going on, why Ian was having seizures after they'd supposedly fixed the problem, if this was a bad sign or simply a symptom of recovery. For a moment, he considers calling a cab and sending Ian on his way to the emergency room while he's still in a foggy state, but a larger and possibly more cowardly side of him imagines what would happen if he was caught.

As the sun rises over the skyline, an orange glow leaks into the apartment through open windows and Mickey yawns tiredly, staring out at the early birds; he hadn’t even tried to sleep the night before, overwhelmed with paranoia that Ian would wake up, although he wasn't totally sure what he was planning to do when it happened. 

His throat stings with the strain of too many cigarette's, and his limbs are starting to ache with the need to rest, but he can't close his eyes yet. 

"Ian," Mickey sits down on the rug, shaking Ian's cast, "Hey, Ian."

It takes a moment before he comes too, as Ian looks up at Mickey as if it's the last person he expected to see. There's a pounding behind his bandages, and after a moment, it becomes terribly obvious that he'd passed out on the floor. The sound of his voice, though drained and burned-out, is comforting, "What- What happened? Did I fall asleep?" 

"You, uh, had a fuckin' seizure," Mickey speaks warily as Ian pushes himself up onto his elbows, his eyes wide with worry as he failed to remember what happened after they'd sat down to play video games, "Listen, you've got to go back to the hospital."

"No, I can't," Ian argues weakly and with a slight slur, shaking his head as Mickey had expected, "It'll be fine- this probably happens all the time, right?" 

"I don’t fuckin' know," Mickey's words come out laced with frustration, noticing the way that Ian flinches away and turns towards his own hands; anger wasn't what he felt, but it helped to cloak the overwhelming wave of worry and distress, "You know who would know? A god damn doctor. C'mon, let's go." 

"No!" Ian shouts out desperately once more, unmoving from the floor as he continues, "I don’t… Mickey, I'd rather die." 

It's the one thing he didn't want to hear, and Mickey shakes his head as if Ian's simply delusional, "Fuck no, you wouldn't. We'll get you in and out before anyone has the chance to recognize you, alright?" 

"They'll know," He answers as if he's already given up, a lump in his throat threatening to break his composure, "I don't want to go to jail." 

Jail wasn't where he wanted Ian to be, and neither man said much else as he rested his tired head on Mickey's shoulder and tried to find a sense of peace. Neither spoke the thought aloud, but both men couldn't help but wonder if that was the last seizure that Ian would have. An hour passes, and soon two, and though he can't deny the dull ache under his skull, it's enough to know that at least he's still breathing.

Just as he turns to ask if Mickey can start a pot of coffee, a soft snore causes him to frown with the understanding that he'd probably spent the whole night awake. It's the least he can do to let him get a good four hours in, and Ian smiles for a moment before realizing that his legs felt mostly numb. 

"Shit," He mumbles, grabbing the sofa behind him for support and balance. It takes nearly a minute to force his shaking limbs to stiffen, and with little control over how his body felt ready to collapse, Ian's heart races with uncertainty. The kitchen is close but seems so far away as his head spins more than he thought possible, and it feels a bit like he won a race when he finally reaches the counter. 

The apartment is quiet, and there's a pinch in his chest for the family he'd left behind, thinking back to a time when he'd lived in a tiny house that was constantly busy. However, the calmness was nice for a change, and as his headache faded enough to see straight, he admired the city view from the windowsill and sipped at a coffee. 

It comes back to him as he looks down at the street and notices a homeless man playing a beaten-down guitar, his back up against the wall and an empty can sitting by his uncovered feet. The tune that Mickey had been strumming was playing over in his mind, but he hadn't been able to understand why until now. It had been so endearing to watch him play carelessly and like he was meant to do so, hoping that one day there'd be a thousands more people cheering him on as he sang on stage.

Slowly and with great discomfort, Ian is haunted with the realization that he isn't doing that great. There's a part of him that wonders how things would be if he'd never crashed the truck, but Mickey snores softly and it dawns on him that the accident was possibly the greatest thing that had ever happened. With the knowledge in mind that his head hasn't stopped pounding yet and that there isn't much he could do to address the issue otherwise, it leaves him with no other option than to enjoy himself until he no longer can. 

That might be why he took a shower, appreciating the cold water pouring down on his feverish skin, and stealing a clean outfit from Mickey's dresser. Slipping the beanie over his bandages, Ian attempts to smile at himself in the mirror; it's nothing but fake and forced until he hears a tired yell, "'S that coffee?" 

"Yep," Ian hollers back with a grin, limping out of the bathroom as Mickey peers up from where he'd been left to sleep, "You want a mug?" 

"Those my clothes?" 

Ian nods, "Sure are- we're goin' out." 

"What- why?" Mickey grumbles, his eyes trailing over Ian's attire as he reaches for the coffee pot; they hang a bit too loosely, and come off as grungy when accompanied with the casts and the beanie, but it was nothing if not charming. The coffee is still hot, steam rising from the mug as he attempts to carry it across the room with a steady hand. 

"I've never actually seen the Statue of Liberty," Ian answers casually and with a small smile, sitting back on the sofa behind Mickey and running careless fingers through his dark hair, "Take me on a date?" 

The question is asked so genuinely that it causes him to blush for a moment, "Fuckin' date? C'mon-" 

"Seriously," Ian persists, shaking Mickey's shoulders from behind, "I can't be that bad?" 

"Shit, alright," Mickey surrenders with a sigh, trying not to dwell on the night before as he leans back and rests his head on Ian's knees, "Lets go see a giant fuckin' rock."


End file.
